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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049176">Inflection Points</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowkeet1/pseuds/sparrowkeet1'>sparrowkeet1</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(sort of), Anal Play, Auror Draco Malfoy, Blindfolds, Cock Warming, Collars, Dom Draco Malfoy, Dom/sub, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Face-Fucking, Fluff and Smut, Head Auror Harry Potter, Light Bondage, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, Sub Hermione Granger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:35:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>43,631</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowkeet1/pseuds/sparrowkeet1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy supposes he ought to be used to it by now, the way his life never moves in straight lines. Between Point A and Point B are always a dozen twists and turns he doesn't expect, despite this being more the rule than the exception. Never mind that the points aren't what he expects, either; if Point A is graduation from Hogwarts and Point B is a job at the Ministry, even straight lines from there on out would have him on a trajectory he couldn't have dreamed up if he tried. </p><p>Of course, it's not straight lines from there on out. Point C is that none other than Harry Potter specifically requests Draco's transfer from Finance in order to put him through Auror Training; Point D is that he survives said training and goes on to work not unhappily under Head Auror Potter. Point E is that Hermione Granger turns out to be Head of Auror Research, an unattached submissive, and quite willing to work closely with him in both roles. </p><p>It's Point F he's stuck on now, or rather, he is somewhere on the meandering curve between their non-public, non-exclusive, once-weekly arrangement and whatever nonsense his life will throw at him next. He's finally figured out what he wants that to be. All that's left is how to get there.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>357</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Girl Hermione</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Draco can’t say precisely when Hermione Granger decided she wanted to get on her knees for him. </p><p>He can pinpoint it to the minute for himself. Her hand across his face in Third Year, the sting overpowered by the urge to extract punishment—in that instant, the simmering frustration he always felt around her had crystallized. He couldn’t articulate it then—can’t fully, even now—but the intoxicating idea of bending her to his will had taken root that day and has refused to die ever since.   </p><p>It seems rather less likely that she came to the same conclusion that day at Hogwarts, or even in many of the years since. They worked on different floors in the Ministry, seeing each other only at a distance, until she was promoted to Head of Auror Research. The new title came with a new office, and his best guess is that she changed her mind sometime after she moved out of the basement onto the Auror floor, which coincidentally was around the same time Potter finally let him start running his own investigations. </p><p>Of course, that part couldn’t be so easy. To keep him on a short leash, Head Auror Potter only gave Draco decades-old cases, long relegated to the backs of filing cabinets or the bottoms of dusty stacks. Retrieving such case files from the archives was a job for an officer of the Research Department much junior to Hermione, but as it turned out, no one else could begin to locate them. One moment he was sending a memorandum down to the Research Clerk’s desk, and the next Hermione was barging into his office with files in her arms and cobwebs in her hair. </p><p>“Draco Malfoy,” she said, squaring the pile of folders neatly on his desk, “I knew the moment you got promoted you were going to be a pain in my arse.” </p><p>But she said it with a smile, with a cocked hip and every bit of the sass he remembered from school, mellowed by time from that insufferable superiority to a teasing wit. </p><p>Plenty more had changed since Hogwarts. For one thing, she certainly had figured out something with her hair. Chestnut curls tumbled down her back, glossy and silken and begging to be touched.  For another, she had embraced the more modern practice of reserving her black Ministry robes for formal occasions and instead wore an impeccably tailored pencil skirt. That day it was hunter green, <em>Slytherin</em> green, and it made his mouth water. </p><p>And if it was just that Hermione Granger had become some unholy combination of every wizard’s secretary-librarian wet dream, well—Draco had taken a secretary from another department to dinner and bed that very first night to rid himself of any temptation. It was that she’d become <em>pleasant.</em> </p><p>He couldn’t help but know. She was still thick as thieves with Potter, who had struck up an unaccountable friendship with Theodore Nott, Deputy Head of Currency and Finance, after they’d coordinated a joint investigation into a counterfeiting scheme. It had been bad enough when his semi-regular after-work drink with Theo was infiltrated by Draco’s own boss. Once Hermione was a fixture in the Auror bullpen, Potter roped her in, too, and Draco’s hour to grouse about his job to a sympathetic ear became one long department meeting with Theo as the interloper. </p><p>Except it wasn’t so awful. He was used to Potter, obviously, and Hermione had drummed up that saucy wit, which only got more provocative a few drinks in. And she was unbelievably good at her job, which was, of course, perfectly believable and no less than what he expected. He found he didn’t mind her popping into his office; in fact, his ear became permanently attuned to the distinctive <em>click</em> of her heels against the marble outside his door. She really was a boon to his investigations, and after a while his only complaint was that she was overly prone to scheduling meetings at eight o’clock on the dot, a time at which he was barely human and she was positively chipper. </p><p>And then she started up a very curious habit. Perhaps six months into working together, she brought him a cup of tea at one of those gruelingly early meetings. It was a surprise to him, but a welcome one, especially when he took a sip and found it precisely to his liking. She asked, at the end of the meeting, if she’d gotten it right, and he told her she had, and the next morning she did it again, and after that she never stopped. </p><p>The tea was his first inkling that something had shifted within her. Even hoping that her small act of service meant something felt terrifyingly vulnerable, but he couldn’t stop himself from building the story in his mind. More than once he had seen her snap at some prat who mistook her for an assistant and tried to send her for refreshments, yet she had done this unbidden, just for him. He even snooped on a few of her early meetings with Potter to be sure—no tea in sight. </p><p>The pieces began to fall together. She didn’t mind being around him, that much was clear—she helped him with his cases more than she had to. She ate lunch with him in the break room more often than not. She never turned down Theo’s invite to the pub. </p><p>And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he may have missed a few things. The press of her knee against his. The pink tint to her cheeks. The late nights in his office. </p><p>So, the exact timing—he isn’t sure. When had he become someone she trusted so much? When had she started planning his morning cup of tea?</p><p>How long had he kept her waiting? </p><p>He thought maybe she wanted to be able to let go for a little while. He thought maybe he’d fallen down on his end of the job. And as soon as she admitted as much, cornered one night at the pub after Harry and Theo left, Draco set about making up for lost time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As in all things, Hermione Granger is an excellent submissive. She is as outstanding at following rules as she had been in school, and still just as eager. She is communicative—unless she’s been told otherwise—and compliant—unless she deduces that he would like to take great pleasure in punishing her. The first time Draco has her, he curses himself for waiting so long. </p><p>They are responsible adults, of course. They set ground rules and expectations. They plan to meet on Friday evenings after work, to Apparate separately to his flat, to spend a few hours together at most. They are neither public nor exclusive. </p><p>Draco wins himself a few rules that are more recreational. From the moment she appears in his living room, Hermione says <em>yes, sir</em> and <em>no, sir</em> or risks the consequences. She doesn’t climax without permission. After a few months of persuasion, she lets him buy her outrageously expensive lingerie—silk and lace in a rainbow of colors, custom-made for her in Paris—and since they start straight after work, she wears it all day. </p><p>Perhaps the last rule is his downfall. Knowing she is wrapped in his gifts beneath her regulation-length pencil skirt keeps him in a state of low-level arousal all Friday, every Friday. It is the first thing that crosses the careful boundaries between their work lives and their private ones, and it opens his eyes to all the rest of the ways their restrictions have started to chafe. </p><p>They have a delightful time on Fridays, and they continue to enjoy a positive working relationship. He really can’t complain. It’s just that he begins to grind his teeth when Potter pulls her to research someone else’s case. He finds himself contemplating Azkaban when Anthony Goldstein chats her up in the break room. He spends an entire evening biting ownership into her flesh and feels it like a slap in the face when she comes to work with the evidence charmed away. </p><p>He knows he’s fucked when they reach the one-year mark and he has to talk himself out of buying her an anniversary present. </p><p>For months he has felt this itching beneath his skin. That along with the grueling case they have now—a string of assaults, the trail nearly twenty years cold—and he can’t say he’s thinking entirely clearly when he walks past her office late one night and stops at the light still on, a beacon in the space below the closed door. </p><p>He has an excuse—she is supposed to be on his case, so it is only professional curiosity that drives him to tap on the polished mahogany. But it is really because he hasn’t seen her in several days, and he misses her with an ache hollow and persistent inside his ribs, and he is too exhausted to muster the self-control to deny himself the sight of her. </p><p>He lets himself into her office without waiting for a response to his knock. “How’s the report—“</p><p>Hermione is standing behind her desk nursing a cup of tea, and at the sound of his voice she gives a startled yelp, drops the cup, and promptly bursts into tears. </p><p>For a beat he is frozen, trying to process the chain of events. Then he moves, drawing his wand to siphon the liquid from where it has soaked the mountain of papers—and, Merlin, he has never seen her office so disorganized. It looks like someone has taken a Beater’s bat to a library. “What is going on here?” </p><p>His only answer is Hermione crying with her face hidden in her hands. </p><p>It <em>has</em> been several days—maybe a whole week? Has he really gone that long without seeing her? They’ve both been underwater on this case, and the rule is that they are not to do anything with the other that they wouldn’t do with any coworker. He wouldn’t check on another researcher, not when they don’t have plans to come back together until the following Monday morning. </p><p>But not checking on her has earned him <em>this,</em> possibly the world’s most formidable witch reduced to tears and avoiding his eyes. It is so very unlike her, neither the impenetrable version of her he sees at work nor the vulnerable one he sees in his bed. Panic rises in his chest and expands to fill all the spaces between his ribs. </p><p>“What is it?” he asks again. He finds he has rounded her desk with little conscious thought, taken her into his arms with even less. “What’s wrong?”  </p><p>Hermione clings to his robes and hides her face against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she hiccups. “I’m sorry, I’m—“</p><p>Her voice pitches toward hysterical. He has rarely seen her upset in his adult life, and never like this. The panic presses against his lungs. “Tell me what’s going on.” </p><p>She takes a few gasping breaths and then dissolves into wracking cries all over again. His patience dissolves right alongside.</p><p>“Alright,” he says. He pries one of her hands from his robes to pull her out her door and down the hall. “Alright, let’s go.”</p><p>“Where—“ </p><p>“I’m taking you home,” he tells her. Their shoes click across the marble lobby, echoing in the empty space, and he stops at the Apparition point. He can’t explain why he needs to get her out of the Ministry, but it is imperative. If he can take her to his flat, he can take care of her. He can figure out what is wrong and how to fix it. He can cocoon her in her favorite flannel blanket and park her by the fire. Perhaps he can feed her dinner. Has she eaten recently? Has he? </p><p>Hermione mumbles, “It’s not Friday.” </p><p>He rounds on her. “Do I look like I give a fuck what day it is?” </p><p>She closes her mouth. </p><p>He wraps a firm arm around her waist and side-along Apparates her for the first time in his life. </p><p>In his flat, he steers her to the first available surface in the living room and presses on her shoulders until she sits. The flannel she likes is draped over the back of his armchair, and he snatches it up so he can tuck it around her place on his sofa. Without letting her out of his peripheral vision, he stokes the fire. That will have to do for now. To feed her, he would have to leave the room, and there’s no situation in which he’s letting her out of his sight. </p><p>He perches on the edge of the cushions beside her, almost too anxious to sit still. “Are you ill?” he demands. </p><p>She shakes her head. </p><p>“Injured? Do you need medical attention?” </p><p>She shakes her head again while she wipes at her eyes with the heel of one hand. He yanks a handkerchief from his pocket and nearly throws it at her, then regrets the abrupt motion. He is being harsh, he knows, and his grip on control is tenuous. It’s bad form. But he still doesn’t know what’s happening, and the fear is rising through his throat.</p><p>“You are going to tell me why you are crying,” he says through gritted teeth, “right now.” </p><p>It’s not fair to give her a command; they aren’t in that context. But he is desperate, and it works. She crumples his handkerchief in one hand and begins to talk, hoarse and hesitant. </p><p>“I’m not through—all the case files yet. There’s so much in evidence—which is good. That helps us. I know that. But I haven’t—I’ve been working round the clock, I swear. But there’s no way I’ll be done—in time for our meeting with Harry on Monday.” </p><p>Deep breaths, in and out. Maybe if he focuses on his breathing, he won’t ask her what he wants to ask her, which is if she’s lost her bloody mind. </p><p>“Are you telling me,” he asks instead, very carefully, “that I’ve found you inconsolable in your office because you won’t be done with the research on our most research-intensive case to date by the time I’m supposed to have a very easily rescheduled briefing with my boss, your best friend?”</p><p>Despite his attempt at an even keel, his voice rises as he speaks until he is almost shouting. Hermione’s shoulders sag, and he feels like a monster. </p><p>“Hermione—“ He reaches for her in apology just as she rushes out a sentence. </p><p>“I’ve disappointed you.” </p><p>His hand freezes halfway to her. “What?”</p><p>“Missing the deadline. I’ve let you down, and I...I hate doing that.” Tears glaze her eyes, hang heavy on her lashes, choke her voice. “And I shouldn’t feel that way. Against the rules. Let you down twice over.” </p><p>She blinks, and the tears spill down her cheeks. His mind races to catch up—she is not hurt, just hurting—and then the urge to soothe her is immediate and overwhelming. He gathers her into his arms, frustration transmuting to affection. “No, no,” he murmurs. “Is that what this is about? You haven’t disappointed me.” He kisses the dampness from her cheeks. “You never have, sweetheart. You couldn’t possibly.” </p><p>She takes a shuddering breath and leans into his embrace, her arms circling his neck. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Hush.” He strokes rhythmic patterns over her shoulders and back. “No more apologies. Nothing to be sorry for.”</p><p>“I blurred the lines,” she whispers, barely audible with her face pressed against his shoulder. “I’ve ruined everything.” </p><p>“You haven’t.” He goes to smooth back her hair and finds it more escaped curl than bun, a telltale sign she is frazzled. A sign he’s missed. </p><p>He’s not supposed to be responsible for cataloguing the signs at work. He isn’t supposed to be on the lookout for her well-being then. That’s only his job for a few hours a week. </p><p>He pulls loose the pin that keeps the remainder of her hair twisted up and runs his fingers through the curls. “You’re alright,” he murmurs to her. “Everything is alright.” </p><p>His heart wrenches to think of how earnestly she tries to please him. He’s always recognized it here and praised her accordingly. How stupid he has been not to recognize the very same thing just because they are at the Ministry instead of his flat—the same hopeful honey eyes trained on him, observing his every reaction, searching for his approval. </p><p>Some part of her has spilled the bounds of Friday evenings, just as it has for him. And he’s missed it for who knows how long. He has left her to reckon with her emotions alone, has allowed her to come to this most impossible of conclusions—that she has failed him, yet shouldn’t feel anything about it.</p><p>“It’s the other way around,” he tells her suddenly. </p><p>She peeks up at him. “What?” </p><p>“I’ve let you down.” He swallows hard around the emotion thick in his throat, curdled from panic into something like shame. “I’m sorry. I should have seen that you were overwhelmed. I should never have let it get this bad.”</p><p>She is drawing back, shaking her head. “No, that isn’t your job—“</p><p>“Yes, it is,” he interrupts. “Pretending that it isn’t is how we got here, with you crying in your office over something I could have fixed, if only I had let you come to me.” </p><p>Her mouth trembles. “Not just you. We made the rules together.” </p><p>“Yes, well.” He tucks a curl behind her ear. “I’m changing them unilaterally, which I should have done a long time ago, unless and until you stop me.” </p><p>She won’t. He didn’t know her quite so thoroughly in the beginning, but now he has spent well over a year with her in eye- or ear-shot for the majority of his waking hours, and laid bare beneath him during a not-inconsequential portion of that time. He has made it his mission to know intimately what she likes and doesn’t, what she wants, how she feels. He’s gotten quite good at it. </p><p>To have shut all that out at work has been like wearing blinders. With them off—with the whole of Hermione in mind, not just a few slivered hours—everything slots easily in place. He knows what she wants instinctively, the same way he knows she won’t object to him changing the rules. Maybe she even needs him to. It’s risky, erasing their meticulous boundaries, and part of what he offers her is safety. If there is risk to be taken, it’s on him. His only concern is that it’s taken him so long. </p><p>He takes her chin in his hand to hold her gaze and gives her a new rule, quiet and gentle. “Never hide your feelings from me again. Not here, and not at work. Do you understand?”</p><p>Her lips shape, “Yes,” but her voice is scarcely a whisper. </p><p>“You’re okay,” he soothes. His thumb traces her cheek, still sticky with salt. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to let you feel overwhelmed and alone anymore. No matter what day of the week it is. Okay?” </p><p>Her mouth trembles. “Okay.”</p><p>He holds her for a long time, waiting for her breathing to even out, waiting for his pulse to slow. It picks right back up when he finally asks her, “What are you thinking, love? Are you sure you’re alright with this?”</p><p>“I’m sure,” she says with an immediacy that flays his chest open. “Just worn out, is all.”</p><p>“I know. Let’s get you to bed.” She looks so small and drawn, curled in his lap with her eyes half-shut, that he decides he might as well nuke all the rules. “Stay here tonight,” he cajoles. “Let me make sure you’re okay.”</p><p>She blinks dazedly at him. “You sure?” </p><p>He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Yes, I am.” </p><p>“Okay,” she murmurs. She closes her eyes and tucks her face against his shoulder. “Good night.” </p><p>He does laugh this time, and carries her to bed, and falls asleep to the steady even sound of her breathing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I want to pay homage to LovesBitca8's <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154373">Good</a> and everything <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc/works?fandom_id=136512">Musyc</a> has ever written. Both have heavily inspired this story, which is entirely self-indulgent porn with feelings. I promise this chapter contains the entirety of the angst involved, and it will just be porn from here on out. </p><p>Comments are greatly appreciated! It's been many years since I read Harry Potter or took a serious literature course, and I am not British; I welcome your corrections to my Potter lore, grammar, and dialect. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the morning, Hermione seems to feel much more like herself, which is to say that he slits open bleary eyes to find her sitting up and stretching her arms languidly overhead while it is still dark outside. </p>
<p>“Timeizit?” he mumbles. </p>
<p>“Five-thirty,” she chirps. </p>
<p>And he is glad to have her chirping again; he really is. But he is a mortal man, and five-thirty in the morning is not a time fit for consciousness. </p>
<p>“Go back to sleep,” he slurs. She starts to say something else, something in unbearably complete sentences, so he grabs her round the waist and drags her back down under the covers with him. She grumbles, but she goes, and he slots her body to his with an arm over her middle. She laces their fingers and nestles in against him, which turns out to be entirely worth consciousness at five-thirty in the morning. </p>
<p>When he wakes again, he can at least see sunlight through the curtains. Hermione is stirring in his hold, huffy about something he can’t focus on through the friction of her backside against his groin. Probably not the time for that, his few functioning higher brain cells inform him. Instead they drive him to let her slip out of bed. In her absence he feels too cold and yanks the blankets over his head. </p>
<p>He drifts, half-asleep and hazy. The smell of tea rouses him to Hermione setting a cup and saucer on his bedside table. “Outstanding,” he mumbles, and she laughs. </p>
<p>“Drink up,” she says. “I’ll see you at work.”</p>
<p>He frowns and scrubs at his eyes. “Where going?”</p>
<p>She gestures at her mussed clothes and tangled hair. “Home to change, unless the walk of shame was how you were planning on letting our department in on our extracurriculars.” </p>
<p>Before he can protest any further, she <em>pops</em> away, leaving him with his perfectly-brewed tea and the delayed realization that he is going to be late to work. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Ultimately, Draco is only five minutes behind schedule, thank you very much. Turns out his morning cup of tea hitting his bloodstream an hour earlier than usual makes up for whatever sleep Hermione cost him with her ridiculous early-morning habits. And if he realizes in the lift that his cufflinks don’t match, well, probably no one will notice. </p>
<p>In some ways he feels like he is walking into an entirely different department. He isn’t sure what Hermione’s morning appointment book looks like, but she is here somewhere, now privy to his innermost longings. She is here somewhere, but ninety minutes ago she was in his bed, and it had taken no actual cajoling to get her there. It is a revelation. It is a relief. </p>
<p>And yet he walks into his own office to find the same slog of details about this nightmare of a case awaiting him exactly as he’d left them the day before. Apparently one miraculous turnaround in his life is all he’s getting this week, so he sighs and starts on the tallest pile of the many on his desk. </p>
<p>He has been absorbed in his work for several hours when the <em>click</em> of a familiar pair of heels pricks his ears. It is so ingrained in him that he can count the steps to his office by the volume of the sound, and right on cue Hermione knocks on his open door. </p>
<p>“Come in,” he says, sitting back in his chair. </p>
<p>Hermione lays a slim folder on his desk and taps the cover. “I’ve rescheduled the briefing with Harry,” she says, businesslike as ever. “The new date and time are recorded here. This is everything I’ve compiled so far—about half the available information, but I thought if you needed to get started, you ought to at least have something.” </p>
<p>“Thank you.” He lets his eyes drift over her. She is wearing a sharply pressed burgundy skirt with matching pumps. Her curls are neatly coiffed. She looks exactly the same as always, not at all like she slept in yesterday’s clothes at someone else’s flat, nor like her life has recently tilted on its axis. A moment of deja vu lurches his stomach—had he dreamed the whole thing?  </p>
<p>She cocks her head at him. “Did you know you’re wearing two different cufflinks?” </p>
<p>He pinches the bridge of his nose. Why couldn’t he have dreamed that part, too? </p>
<p>“Could I take up a moment of your time?” he asks with his eyes still closed. He hears her shut the door and sink into one of the chairs opposite his desk before he opens them. “How are you feeling?”</p>
<p>Genuine surprise crosses her face, as if she doesn’t see a need for the question. “I’m good.”</p>
<p>He squints at her. “I changed all the rules. We’re having a personal conversation at work. Everything is different.”</p>
<p>“Ah.” She smiles. “I believe the question is, how are <em>you</em> feeling?”</p>
<p>How <em>is</em> he feeling? Ecstatic. Baffled. Like he wants to bend her over his desk. Like he might be sick. “Worried,” is what he settles on. </p>
<p>“About what?”</p>
<p>“About overstepping.” He gestures vaguely between them. “About pushing you into something you don’t want.” </p>
<p>She is shaking her head before he is finished speaking. “You can’t. My only requirement is that our work continues at its current caliber. It’s too important not to. As much fun as I’m sure it would be to blow you under your desk, I’m not certain it would be very responsible.” </p>
<p>His cock twitches with interest. He tries to ignore it. </p>
<p>“And I don’t think we should make a habit of too many of these conversations at work,” she continues. “Everything else—I’m happy to follow your lead.”</p>
<p>Happy to follow his lead—what a delightfully vague statement. “And what if my lead is for you to stay the night more often?” </p>
<p>He doesn’t miss her pleased little smile even as she ducks her head. “I can do that, yes.”</p>
<p>He taps the arm of his desk chair, considering where to go from here. They are in uncharted territory, and he gets to draw the charts. He is mapping out the broad strokes when an idea decidedly more petty comes to him. “You are never to go out with Anthony Goldstein, no matter how many times he compliments your arse at lunch.”</p>
<p>She bursts into laughter. “That will be no trouble. It’s entirely one-sided, I assure you.” </p>
<p>The other men in their office who have let their eyes linger on her come unbidden to his mind. “Not Cormac McLaggen, either. Or Seamus Finnegan.”</p>
<p>“Draco, do you think I’ve been out with anyone in the last year and a half?” </p>
<p>He startles. “Haven’t you?”</p>
<p>“No, of course not. Have you?”</p>
<p>He counts backwards. Surely he has. When did he shag that secretary from Currency—Sandy? Was that Hermione’s first day in the department? Maybe it was. Hadn’t there been anyone after Sandy?</p>
<p>Too slow, he realizes he is looking at his <em>after.</em> “No.” His heart sinks. “I’ve kept you waiting on this, too, haven’t I?”</p>
<p>She shakes her head again. “You get to take as much time as you need.”</p>
<p>Wasted time is what it is. “And what about what <em>you</em> need?”</p>
<p>She looks at him through her lashes. “You always figure out what that is,” she says softly. “And you always give it to me.”</p>
<p>Desire, at once ravenous and tender, thrums in his veins. If only he could bottle her trust and keep it with him always. If only he could steal her away right now and reward her for all her patience. </p>
<p>In the meantime, this will have to suffice. He levels his gaze at her and puts words to what he has wanted for months. “Let me take you to dinner.” </p>
<p>She speaks evenly, but the spots of pink high on her cheeks give her away. “That sounds lovely.”</p>
<p>“Tonight.”</p>
<p>“Theo and Harry have invited us to the pub.”</p>
<p>“Wonderful,” he deadpans. “We’ll have a double date.”</p>
<p>She claps a hand over her mouth to smother a laugh. </p>
<p>“Tomorrow,” he amends. She nods, and he stands briskly, buttoning his robes. “Splendid. I’ll owl you the details.”</p>
<p>He moves to open his office door for her—they have been in here long enough—but when she rises, too, he stops toe-to-toe with her. “To be completely clear, I no longer intend to entertain even the theoretical notion that I might share you. Of course I will extend to you the same exclusivity.”</p>
<p>“Yes.” She tips her chin up to meet his eyes. “Sir.”</p>
<p>Her answer fizzles through his blood and settles in his marrow. There are more words to put to this, more claims to stake, but these are enough. Enough to make it explicit, enough for him to know without any doubt that she is his. </p>
<p>He steps around her and sets a hand on the doorknob. A last, delicious thought occurs to him. “And I want you to wear something of mine always. Now that I can see you any night I please.”</p>
<p>She turns to follow, and just when he is sure she will stay demure and sweet with that pretty blush painted across her face, she gives him a cheeky grin. “Did you think I hadn’t been?”</p>
<p>He stops with the door half-open. “What?”</p>
<p>She sashays past him, the little minx. “You said I had to on Fridays,” she whispers, the picture of innocence. “You didn’t say I <em>couldn’t</em> the other days.”</p>
<p>And with that she is gone, clicking down the hall back to her office. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Draco is practically vibrating in his seat at the pub waiting for Hermione. Theo is already next to him in the semi-circle booth, chatting about—something. Draco hasn’t really kept track of what, exactly; he’s sure it would be terribly interesting if he were not currently drowning in six working hours’ worth of lust. </p>
<p>He had remained true to his word. Instead of dragging Hermione back to his office by her hair, he went about the rest of his day as usual. He spent most of it buried in evidence, writing and rewriting timelines and maps and lists. Hermione had brought him two more folders, and Harry stopped by along with the second. Draco had been on his best behavior. He could swear Harry still looked at him a bit oddly, but he can’t for the life of him think what for. He was being so careful, determined to show Hermione that he is worthy of her trust. </p>
<p>The low drumbeat of longing, though—he hasn’t been able to silence that all day. Now he is away from work—if exclusively with his coworkers—and if he doesn’t get at least a hand on her in the next thirty seconds, he’s going to lose his mind. </p>
<p>“Draco?” Theo is saying.</p>
<p>“Hm, what?” </p>
<p>“Are you listening to me?” </p>
<p>Draco takes a guilty sip of his whiskey. “Yes,” he mumbles from behind the rim of the glass. “Of course. Go on.” </p>
<p>Theo raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Right.” </p>
<p>Fortunately Draco is saved by the arrival of Harry, mercifully with Hermione in tow. They clamber into the round booth, Harry alongside Theo and Hermione next to Draco. She has let her hair down since he last saw her, and she leans her knee against his under the table. </p>
<p>Even the casual touch sends a jolt through him. Now that he is no longer trying very hard not to notice her, he feels hyper-aware of every detail. The warmth of her leg seeps through her stockings and his trousers to glow against his skin. Her curls gleam in the low light, and her mouth is the slightest shade darker than in the office. The idea that she has put on lipstick just for this makes him want to push her down and ruin it. </p>
<p>He forces his attention back to his friends before he does something rash, like pull her into a bathroom stall or, even better, straight home. Theo is still talking, now about policy updates in his department from some useless higher-up. Normally this topic would present several opportunities to make comments about similarly useless policies from Draco’s own higher-up, but instead he is distracted by his newfound freedom to settle his hand on Hermione’s thigh. </p>
<p>The muscles in her leg twitch and flex under his fingers before she relaxes, and he wonders if she feels the same frisson of electricity he does. When he casts a look at her, his answer is in her flushed cheeks, and he wants to crow with victory. </p>
<p>Theo flags the waiter so Harry and Hermione can order drinks. They settle in for a routine evening, except Draco doesn’t let his touch get far from Hermione’s skin. It anchors him in a way he doesn’t expect, the smooth slide of the nylon and the warmth of her body leaning into his. </p>
<p>Pub nights tend to be long ones, which Draco doesn’t really mind. Even tonight, when he aches to get Hermione home and undressed, he is happy to linger with their friends and revel in their casual, easy contact, a luxury he never thought he’d have. </p>
<p>So when Harry signals the waiter for what Draco assumes is a fourth round and instead asks for the check, he is baffled. Hermione must be, too, because she inquires, “Something wrong?”</p>
<p>“Oh, certainly not,” Harry says flippantly. “Just thought we’d let the two of you get on with it. We’ll try again next week.”</p>
<p>Draco blinks. </p>
<p>“It was so much easier when it was only Fridays,” Theo remarks, toying with his empty glass. </p>
<p>“You didn’t have to work with them.” Harry rolls his eyes in Theo’s direction. “The level of frustration in my immediate vicinity is down by at least half. I vote for this configuration.” </p>
<p>“How did they work it out, do you know?” </p>
<p>Harry shakes his head. “The inner workings are all a mystery. Truthfully I’ve no desire to solve it.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me?” Hermione finally splutters. “What is—” She turns to Draco. “Did you—How do they—” </p>
<p>For his part, Draco is too gobsmacked to speak. </p>
<p>“It’s quite obvious,” Harry explains. “We’re all very happy for you.”</p>
<p>“All?” Hermione gasps. <em>“Obvious?</em> We are perfectly professional!”</p>
<p>“Well, yes,” says Harry patiently. “But you work in the Auror Department. Did you think people wouldn’t notice?” </p>
<p>“I’m given to understand,” Theo puts in, “it was the longing looks that gave you away.” </p>
<p>Draco finds his voice. <em>“You’re</em> not an Auror.” </p>
<p>“Oh, Harry told me ages ago.” </p>
<p>Something about that rings off in Draco’s ears. Hermione opens her mouth again, but Draco shushes her. He just needs a moment to think— </p>
<p><em>“Harry?”</em> he asks. “Since when do you call him <em>Harry?”</em> </p>
<p>Theo grins. “Six months next Tuesday.”</p>
<p>Harry mutters, “Shit,” at the exact same moment that Hermione shrieks, <em>“Oh my god!”</em></p>
<p>Draco winces and makes a mental note that three glasses of wine with no dinner is slightly more than Hermione can handle. </p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Hermione says again. “I didn’t—Are both of you—I had no idea—Did you know about this?” She whips around to face Draco, scowling when he shakes his head. “Well, <em>you’re</em> an Auror.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he says, somewhat peevishly, “and <em>I</em> knew Theo was bi. Potter's sexuality was <em>your</em> responsibility.”</p>
<p>Theo sniggers. Draco glares at him. </p>
<p>“Don’t look at me, mate,” Theo says. “It was in the papers.”</p>
<p>“You’ll forgive me if I stopped reading the papers after I started at the Ministry and they ran my mugshot for a week,” Draco replies. “The Head of Research, on the other hand—” </p>
<p>Hermione squirms in her seat. “I only read the Governance Section,” she mumbles. “Never the Social.”</p>
<p>“A right useless pair of employees I’ve got, yeah?” Harry says cheerfully. “Oh, and I meant to tell you earlier in your office, Malfoy—you’re wearing two different cufflinks.”  </p>
<p>Draco puts his head down on the table.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Theo/Harry is a normal pairing, right? </p>
<p>I think I got it from <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21149990">Every Little Thing She Does (Is Magic)</a>. </p>
<p>Would love any feedback you might have &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Draco side-alongs Hermione home. She probably isn’t too drunk to do it herself, but any excuse to keep her in his flat is a good one, and she has finally phased out of belligerence into cuddly drowsiness. He can’t say he minds either version of her, but it feels especially wonderful to have her tucked against his side, nuzzling into his shoulder like a cat. </p><p>“When you said we could have a double date,” she murmurs, “I thought you were joking.”</p><p>He snorts. “I thought I was joking, too.” He unwinds her to shed his coat and his blasted mis-matched cufflinks, then bends to untie his shoes. “They do make sense together, the more I think about it. I just never would have predicted it.”</p><p>“And it turns out everyone predicted us,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t believe they all knew.” </p><p>“I was under the impression that I was taking you out tomorrow night,” he teases. “Did you think people wouldn’t know then?”</p><p>“On our terms,” she protests. “Not as the whole department’s pet project. Harry said they had a pool going!”</p><p>Draco laughs and snakes an arm around her waist to pull her firmly against the length of his body. “Do me a favor, love,” he says, voice pitched low, “and forget about the department right now.” </p><p>Hermione makes a pleased noise that is almost a purr as he kisses her and threads his free hand into her hair. He brushes his lips along her jaw and then pulls her head back with a fistful of curls to suck at her throat, intent on marking as much of her as possible. </p><p>“You’re a good girl, you know that?” he murmurs as he mouths along her skin. “My sweet, patient girl.” </p><p>When he tugs her blouse from the waist of her skirt, she puts her arms overhead automatically. He peels off the fabric and drags his fingers back down over the column of her throat to thumb at one hardened nipple through the lace of her bra. It is familiar, one of his favorites. So she hadn’t been toying with him when she said she wears his lingerie every day. </p><p>He wonders if she has on the whole matching set and eases down the zipper of her skirt to find out. It puddles around her heels, revealing the coordinating knickers and garter belt, all blue lace and satin like the night sky against her skin. </p><p>“Very pretty,” he rumbles, letting his hands drift over her breasts, her waist, her hips, feeling smooth fabric and smoother skin. “How long have you been prancing around the Ministry like this, hm?” He pulls her close again, letting his erection dig into her hip, groaning with the friction.</p><p>“More or less since you started giving me things,” she admits. </p><p>“And to think how I had to fight you for it.”</p><p>He had. She balked at the cost until he explained to her the extent to which the Malfoys had been accumulating wealth for generations. That, and he had kept her on the knife-edge of orgasm for well over an hour until she agreed to let him spend as much on her as he wanted. One or the other had persuaded her handily. </p><p>She hums in agreement. “But you were right. Now—well, I started and didn’t stop. Found I liked wearing something of yours.”</p><p>He tightens his grip on her as a feral possessiveness flares in his chest. “Perfect girl. You’ve been so good for me. Gonna give you everything you deserve. Anything you want.” </p><p>He walks her back the short distance to his bed and pushes her onto it, twisting her hands overhead in his. A murmured spell binds them there. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he tells her. “About rewarding you. Do you want your reward, sweetheart?” </p><p>She gazes at him with darkened eyes, just starting to glaze over and she slips deeper into the scene. “Yes, sir,” she whispers. </p><p>The honorific makes his cock pulse with arousal in his slacks. </p><p>He forces his attention away from his own need and back to her, stretched out and ready for him. “What a pretty picture you make,” he croons. “All mine for the taking.” </p><p>Bracketing her hips with his knees, he leans down to bite at the swell of one breast, then soothes the bruise with slow swipes of his tongue. Her breath turns to pants beneath him as he takes his time, setting his teeth to a half-dozen spots across her chest and shoulders, murmuring, “mine, mine, mine,” against her skin like an incantation. Only when the sounds pouring from her throat pitch into a whine, high and desperate, does he slink down her body and nuzzle at the apex of her thighs. </p><p>“Oh,” she chokes when he mouths her through her knickers. “Oh, please—“</p><p>“Shh—hush now, darling. I’ve got you. I’m going to take good care of you.” He begins to scatter the evidence of his teeth across her inner thighs. Her hips twitch with the effort of holding still. “That’s it. You’re so good for me. You’re doing so well.” </p><p>She whimpers and mewls, pleading wordlessly. Finally he gives in and drags her knickers down her legs and off, then kisses back up from ankle to hip and nibbles on the jut of one hipbone. </p><p>Then he licks a stripe up her dripping cunt, and she keens. The sound is deeply satisfying, coiling at the base of his spine as he sets about pleasuring her in earnest. All traces of teasing gone, he is relentless between her legs. His tongue pushes into her; his teeth scrape over her clit. His fingers tease at her entrance and then slip into her without warning, spearing her open, wrenching a sharp gasp from her open mouth. </p><p>“Draco,” she cries out, “please, please can I come, please—“ </p><p>“Yes, love. Come for me.” He curls his fingers forward inside her and lights up with pride as she shatters beneath him, her walls clenching hard while her legs twitch and jerk. </p><p>He kisses and laps gently at her thighs while she floats back down, and when she catches her breath he begins to slide his fingers shallowly in and out of her. His movements stay slow and steady, never faltering, even when she gasps, “Too much—can’t—“ </p><p>She knows the words that really mean too much. They’d actually had a very illuminating conversation about the Muggle invention that is the origin, some kind of signal for something called a car. Occasionally she has used one or the other, and now she is using neither, so he keeps up his ministrations on her oversensitive cunt. </p><p>“You can take it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Want you to come again on my fingers, and then on my cock.” He fucks her with his fingers a little faster, brings his thumb to her clit. “Can you do that for me, love?”</p><p>Her hips buck and writhe, and she doesn’t answer him, her manners fallen by the wayside in her post-coital haze. She pulls at her bonds as if to reach for him, and he withdraws his soaked fingers to slap harshly down on her cunt. “Behave,” he scolds, even as the obscene wet noise makes his vision white out with longing. It would be so easy to bury his cock in her to the hilt, to take what he wants. </p><p>But his reprimand has settled her back to the mattress. “Yes, sir,” she says, voice meek, and he remembers again why he is holding off. </p><p>“Good,” he coos, fitting his fingers back to her entrance. “You’re going to be my sweet girl, aren’t you?”</p><p>Her answering, “Yes, sir,” is punctuated with a moan as he lowers his mouth to her. His lips fasten around her clit as his fingers pick up speed. Her body responds to the sting of pain, the rebuke, the praise—he knows exactly the formula to tip her over the edge again. In no time she is half-sobbing for permission, “Please, can I come, please I’ll be good—”</p><p>“You <em>are</em> good, sweetheart,” he croons. “Come.” </p><p>She obeys his command instantly. A scream bursts from her throat, the sound racing down his every nerve, heightening his arousal to blind need. He stands tall on his knees and unbuckles his belt with one hand, leaving the other on her thigh to ease her down from her peak. She is still gasping for air when he pulls out his leaking cock and fists it tightly, groaning through his teeth. </p><p>Hermione slits her eyes open and watches him through her lashes. “Please.” </p><p>He squeezes her leg. “Please, what?”</p><p>She shifts and plants her feet on the bed, angling her hips up toward him. Even as her chest still rises and falls rapidly she begs, “Please fuck me.”</p><p>He curses and settles between her thighs. “Perfect little thing,” he hisses as he lines up. “Perfect, perfect.” </p><p>He buries his length in her with a string of profanity. Her cunt is scorching and slick around him, still pulsing from her orgasm. It feels divine. </p><p>“Yes,” she sighs when he bottoms out. “Yes, yes.”</p><p>He braces himself on his elbows and begins to move, hard deep thrusts that make her cry out with every downstroke. Her legs hook around his waist, changing the angle, driving him deeper. His mouth claims hers, bruising and rough, his tongue fucking her mouth in time with his cock. </p><p>He swallows the sounds she makes as his hips smack against her thighs, then draws back to look at her. At where his cock pistons into her. At her face, slack with pleasure, head tipped back. He yanks down the cups of her bra so he can watch her tits bounce with the force of his movements, and the sight makes the coil of heat wind tighter and tighter.</p><p>“Close,” he grunts. Sweat drips into his eyes. “Be a good girl and come on my cock.” </p><p>Hermione babbles, sounds without words, as her lashes flutter. Her hips rock into his, the motions as frantic as he feels. He tugs sharply on her nipple and growls, “Now.”</p><p>She shrieks and spasms around him, weaker than before but still plenty to send him into bliss alongside her. “Fuck,” he mutters, “fuck, fuck, <em>fuck,</em> Hermione.” His head drops to her shoulder as he spills into her, pulsing with every aftershock until he is utterly spent.  </p><p>Then he is pushing himself back up to skate his fingers along her arms. He murmurs the counter-charm to free her wrists and catches them in his hands, easing them back down to her sides, rubbing gently over the stretched muscles. She looks dazed and dreamy as he dotes on her, gathering her into his arms and petting her sweat-damp hair. </p><p>If she was cuddly before while she was tipsy, she is positively clingy now, nestling against his chest with her fingers tight in his shirt. He likes nearly every facet of her, but this one is his favorite, sweet and sleepy and sated. It is already unthinkable that he ever let her leave his sight like this, much less his house. </p><p>He kisses the top of her head and coaxes her up with him so he can unclasp her bra and drape her in a sleep-shirt of his, taking his time with each button. The sleeves are over-long, the shirt itself nearly halfway down her thighs, and if it is one of the many with his monogram embroidered on the chest pocket, well—she couldn’t prove he’d done it on purpose. “I like you like this,” he says, tugging at the hem. </p><p>She blinks owlishly up at him. “I like you.”</p><p>He laughs softly and wraps an arm around her waist. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”</p><p>“I’m lovely.” She takes the opportunity to burrow into his side, and he eases her back onto the bed. </p><p>“Stay,” he says as he steps back to undress himself. She sits obediently on the mattress while he exchanges his work clothes for the pyjama bottoms that match her top. “Do you need anything?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “Thank you for letting me stay,” she murmurs. </p><p>His heart thuds painfully against his ribs. “I’m not <em>letting</em> you stay. I want you to.” </p><p>She smiles.</p><p>***</p><p>Draco is exactly on time to work the next day, dressed in crisp all black and daring anyone to find anything awry with his appearance. Harry passes him in the hallway with a smirk and a raised brow, and Draco smirks back.</p><p>“Got that six-month gift yet, Potter?”</p><p>From behind him, Draco hears Harry’s muttered “Shit!” with no small amount of satisfaction. </p><p>Hermione pops into his office right on schedule and hands over his morning cup of tea. “Harry has asked me to ask you what Theo would like for their six-month anniversary,” she says drily. </p><p>Draco snorts from behind a file. “Tell him I am a consummate professional, and as such regrettably cannot discuss personal matters in the workplace.”</p><p>She laughs. “That’s unfortunate, then, because how am I going to know where we’re going to dinner?”</p><p>He puts down the folder. “I’ll owl you on my lunch break. Besides, no self-respecting wizard would let you <em>meet him there</em> on a first date. I’ll be by to pick you up.”</p><p>She seems to consider this. “You’ve never been to my flat.”</p><p>He gives her a wolfish grin. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know where it is. I’ve done my homework, Miss Granger.”</p><p>The flush crawling up her neck is both satisfying and tempting, but to fuck her across his desk, he’d first have to get rid of some of these godforsaken files. “Shall we get to it?”</p><p>Hermione clears her throat. “Yes. Right.”</p><p>After that, they commence to have a surprisingly normal meeting. He is pleased to find they still work perfectly well together, and he is no more distracted than usual by thoughts of what he could do to her with a Silencing Charm over his office. </p><p>In many ways the workday feels more comfortable than before, as if this is the real normal and everything prior had been ever-so-slightly crooked or out of focus. He does get a few knowing looks in the break room and figures Harry and Theo must have let slip some of the details. Hermione might have wanted to come out on her own terms, but Draco doesn’t mind this way a bit. The sooner Goldstein starts glaring at him instead of ogling her, the better, and he gets his wish as soon as the two men enter the same room. Draco levels a stare right back with something like glee, then takes his lunch to his desk so he can ready everything for that evening. </p><p>***</p><p>Draco takes her to the most expensive restaurant in Wizarding London. The first snap of a camera comes not ten minutes after they are seated, but he can’t find a spare second to care, not with Hermione talking and laughing with red wine staining her lips. </p><p>Nothing could be more different from school. Her chattering used to grate on his ears; he would dream of shutting her up with his cock. The latter hasn’t changed, but regarding the former, he is happy now to have her so at ease. She coaxes him into speaking freely, too, listening with her head tilted and her eyes unwavering on him, like he is a lecture she is determined to learn. </p><p>He orders her favorite wine and both of their entrees to keep her from zeroing in on what she thinks will be cheapest. She opens her mouth to protest when he doesn’t let her get a word in with their waiter, and she shuts it with a click as he slides his hand up her dress to brush the bare skin between her stockings and her knickers. Her muffled squeak heats his blood, as does the slight dampness at the apex of her thighs that he finds when he lets his fingers drift higher. </p><p>“Why, I’m surprised at you,” he husks into her ear after their waiter has stepped away. “Wet for me in public?”</p><p>Red blooms across Hermione’s face and creeps down her neck. “I—I—didn’t know that I—liked that…”</p><p>Satisfaction roils through him. It isn’t often that he finds something new for her, not after they have been doing this for so long, but when he does… “Should have taken you out ages ago,” he groans. “Would have known straight away what a dirty girl you were.” </p><p>The gusset of her knickers is thoroughly wet now, and he strokes her through the soaked lace. She whimpers quietly and shifts in their booth, restless and wanting, moving at once toward and away from him. </p><p>“Sit still,” he scolds. “Take it.”</p><p>Her teeth sink into her bottom lip until the skin is white from the pressure. He longs to replace her teeth with his own but doubts he could get away with that for long, even in their quiet corner booth. He’ll have to settle for slipping his fingers under the fabric to tease at her slit while her thighs shake with the effort of obeying his command. </p><p>“That’s better. Good.” He rewards her with a pass over her clit, pressing down in tight circles for a tantalizing moment before returning to her entrance and working a finger inside. </p><p>“Draco,” she sighs, dropping her head down. “Draco.”</p><p>“Yes, love?”</p><p>“I can’t…”</p><p>He laughs, low and dark, and adds a second finger to pump in and out of her dripping cunt. “What can’t you?”</p><p>Her eyes squeeze tightly shut. “Going to—come—here, in front of—”</p><p>In a flash his hand is gone, cleaned discreetly on the napkin draped over his knees. Hermione’s eyes fly open, her pupils swallowing all but a thin ring of honey. </p><p>“You’re absolutely right,” he drawls. “You can’t.”</p><p>Her mouth works for a moment before she finds coherent words. “I need permission—here?”</p><p>A wicked smirk curls his lips. “Did I forget to mention? You need permission, period.” He pauses to down a swallow of wine and watches her from the corner of his eye. </p><p>Their server returns with their meals as if on cue. Though the food is excellent, the look on Hermione’s face is far more delicious. Her silverware trembles minutely, and red still paints her upper body. </p><p>He knows how she feels. His cock is painfully hard in his slacks; a few strokes and he’d be finished. But the denial of her pleasure brings it to him in spades, easily worth his delayed gratification, so he takes his time with his dinner, savoring each bite just as he savors Hermione’s eyes gone black with need. </p><p>“Well,” he says when he sets down his work, “that was delightful. How was your meal, Hermione?”</p><p>Her answering “Fine” is hoarse. </p><p>“Shall we stay for dessert? Perhaps some coffee?”</p><p>She narrows her eyes at him. “Bastard,” she hisses. </p><p>He gives her a smile that is more a baring of his teeth. “Asking for it now, I see. Do you think that’s terribly wise?”</p><p>“Have to ask for it all the time, apparently.” </p><p>“You’re mine all the time,” he growls. “Aren’t you?”</p><p>Her nostrils flare. “Yes,” she says shortly. </p><p>His heart pounds for this sweet girl who won’t deny him that truth, even as she is trying to get a rise out of him. He ought to reward her for finding a boundary he’s never expressed, for knowing that the sting of a <em>no</em> might follow him outside the scene. </p><p>He doubles down instead. </p><p>“Yes, what?” he prompts. </p><p>Her lips press together into an obstinate line. </p><p>Draco folds his napkin neatly and leaves it on the table with a sum more than adequate to cover their tab. Then he stands, buttons his robes, and holds a hand out to Hermione with one brow lifted. The moment her skin touches his, he snaps them away. </p><p>***</p><p>Back at his flat, he wastes no time. “On your knees. Now.” </p><p>Hermione goes, but slowly, her eyes on his face, narrowed and calculating. </p><p>He knows that look. </p><p>She is daring him to put her in her place. Daring him, and begging him. This is hardly the most she’s ever misbehaved, but the occurrences are few and far between. He wonders if she is pushing back, testing his resolve to keep her more than one day a week. Maybe she’s making herself troublesome to see if he can really handle her all the time. Maybe she just wants this, today, for no discernible reason at all. </p><p>It doesn’t matter. What she needs is the same, and he’ll give it to her no matter the cause. </p><p>He steps close to her, crowding into her space, and grabs her jaw to angle her face up. “So pretty on your knees for me.” He taps her cheek with an open palm, not a hit but close enough to remind her that it could be. Twice more, then two fingers shove into her mouth. “Suck,” he commands. </p><p>She does, swirling her tongue and hollowing her cheeks. He begins to fuck her mouth with his fingers until her chin is messy and her eyes are just glazing over. </p><p>“My perfect little slut,” he coos. “All mine. Nice and easy for me and no one else.” His free hand goes to his trousers to pull out his cock, and he strokes himself in time with the movement of his fingers. “Do you know why that is?”</p><p>Of course, with her mouth full, she can’t answer. </p><p>“Because no one knows you like I do. No one else can take you apart and put you back together.” He withdraws his fingers to fist them tightly in her hair, holding her still. “Would you even get on your knees for someone else? Would you let them do half the things I do?”</p><p>He feeds her his cock before she can speak, though he doubts she would have from the easy way she loosens her jaw and lets him rock into the hot velvet of her mouth. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You feel so good.”</p><p>The wet, half-choked sounds she makes threaten to end this just as it’s begun. He closes his eyes to listen to her, conscious of her hands light on the outsides of his knees. She hasn’t tapped out; she isn’t going to. He knows exactly how much she can take. </p><p>And he makes her take the full breadth of that, snapping his hips roughly, snarling what she needs to hear. “You were made for me.” The slick slide of her mouth, the flutter of her lashes— “And I only want you.” Her moan, wanton and unabashed, reverberating up his spine— “So you’re <em>mine</em>—every inch of you—every orgasm—<em>mine.”</em> </p><p>Laying claim to her builds heat beneath his skin, more and more until he breaks. He yanks her off by her hair to spill across her face in long, shuddering pulses. As he heaves for air he swipes his thumb across her lips, smearing the mess over her skin, marking her up as much as he can. </p><p>Even as pleasure still ebbs through him, he drops to his knees and shoves her thighs apart. Dress hiked up, knickers yanked down, she sobs with relief when he strokes her dripping cunt. “Take you apart anytime you like,” he grits out. His fingers twist ruthlessly into her, her hips grinding down onto his hand. “As often as you need.” He drops his mouth to her shoulder and sucks at her skin while his hand works. She is making mewling, pleading sounds, her breath coming short and sharp. He angles his movements just so, and she bites off a scream. “Always gonna give you what you need. Understand?” </p><p>“Yes—“ She whines and gasps. “Sir—Please—”  </p><p>“Come,” he orders, and sinks his teeth into her neck. </p><p>Her whole body trembles and jerks, her cunt pulsing around his hand, her voice a wail. He catches her as she goes limp and boneless, easing down and pulling her into his lap. He rains gentle kisses over her ruined hair and murmurs charms to clean them both as she returns gradually to herself. </p><p>“Hello, darling,” he grins when she straightens up enough to look him in the face. “Back with me?”</p><p>She nods and kisses him, gentle and sweet. The return of his good girl makes him want to purr with satisfaction. He’d done that—made her feel safe and settled.  </p><p>Once he gets them both on their feet and her into his bed, he sets about tidying up and hunting for where he’d last left his book on wizarding currency throughout history. Hermione is making contented little noises from under his covers, but she stops long enough to remark, “It’s kind of a shame, really.”</p><p>Draco twists to look at her. “What is?”</p><p>She yawns, then grumbles, “I was rather looking forward to dessert.”</p><p>He bursts into laughter. “I’ll take you back if you behave,” he grins. </p><p>She stretches out a hand. “I’ll behave if you come to bed.”</p><p>“Since when are you in a position to bargain?” he quips, but he abandons his search for the book and climbs under the blankets with her. She curls into him right away, her head tucked beneath his chin and her legs tangled with his. The easy intimacy of her movements makes his heart pound against his sternum, and he returns them in equal measure, holding her close with his cheek against her hair. “Good night, Hermione.”</p><p>“Good night, Draco,” she murmurs, and he feels safe and settled.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thus begins the porn (the feelings have been included from the start). </p><p>&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three nights in a row with Hermione in his bed, and Draco is ruined for anything else. He has foolishly allowed her to get away after their date without making any further plans, which means they work together as usual and then part ways for their own flats. He toys with various schemes for luring her back and keeping her there—chaining her permanently to his headboard is a very real option—but mostly he wonders what he used to do with all his spare time on weeknights. </p><p>Then their case ramps up, and they don’t go home together because they scarcely go home at all. Draco regrets wishing he could more easily spend the night with her; apparently, he should have specified that nights working until the early hours of the morning don’t count toward what he had in mind. </p><p>They both become increasingly haggard. Harry does, too, drawn in now that they seem close to a breakthrough. Paranoid in his exhaustion, Draco can’t help but feel Potter has stuck his nose in just to make sure any ideas Draco might have had about some quick stress relief in the office are fully quashed. </p><p>Instead, the stress builds and builds, going on two weeks, until one day all the pieces fall together. Harry sends out a field team of their best Aurors, who make the arrest with no casualties and only a few minor injuries, and the whole office breathes a collective sigh of relief. </p><p>When Harry receives official word from the field, he searches out Draco and finds him standing in front of the breakroom coffeemaker, trying to discern the spell to make it turn on. Harry claps him on the shoulder. “All finished,” he says. “Go home. That’s a job well done, Malfoy.”</p><p>Draco is too tired to remember not to smile at the kindness. “Thanks, mate.”</p><p>Harry grins. “I’ll remind you of that later. Now, please go get your girlfriend and get out of here. She’s driving me batty.” </p><p>Draco lifts his eyebrows. He hasn’t seen Hermione yet today, but given her long history with Harry, he can’t imagine what she could do that would bother him at this point. He shrugs and walks to her office, only to pause in the doorway at the state of the room. </p><p>The most likely explanation would have to be that a hurricane of parchment has made landfall on her desk. This is not an encouraging sign regarding the state of Hermione’s mental well-being. </p><p>The witch herself is standing with her back to him, hunting down something from one of her bookshelves. The sorry state of her unraveling updo confirms Draco’s fears.</p><p>“Hermione,” he calls. “Potter says the raid is over—they have the suspect. No complications. Everyone is safe. He’s sending us home to rest.”</p><p>She doesn’t turn around, just waves a dismissive hand. “You go on. I’ve got some paperwork to finish up—just making sure it’s all squared away, you know. And the research requests from other Aurors have been piling up—I’d like to go ahead and get started on those.” </p><p>Draco props himself against the doorframe, arms crossed, and waits. </p><p>Hermione finally locates the book she needs and pulls it from the shelf. When she turns back to her desk, she jumps at the sight of him. “What are you still doing here?”</p><p>Draco eyes her. “Waiting for you to tell me you’re feeling overwhelmed. As we discussed.”</p><p>She blanches. “I’m...not. I’m not going to be <em>late</em> on any of these, just behind where I’d like to be. So it’s not the same as last time.”</p><p>Draco takes a step into her office. While not exactly a lie, her words certainly don’t ring true. “If you’re not feeling the way you were last time, why don’t you tell me what you <em>are</em> feeling?”</p><p>She twists her fingers together, fretting. “We’re at work.”</p><p>Another step. “We’re not. Potter has dismissed us for the day.” </p><p>Her throat works as she swallows. “I’m…” </p><p>One more, and he is at her desk, leaning over it with his hands braced on the edge. “Here,” he says. “Let me try. You’re tired, certainly. Tense—perhaps worried about the field team? Anxious that we might not have enough to make an unbreakable case? Wound tight from working so much these last few weeks?” He lets his gaze drift from her wide eyes to her fidgeting hands. “In need of...release?” </p><p>Her hands stop moving. Her whole body is frozen, a taut line from head to heels. Exhaustion is written into every quivering muscle. </p><p>He straightens to his full height and reaches for her. </p><p>“Come here.”</p><p>They leave the Ministry hand-in-hand, not for the first time, but now with an audience. Harry makes a face—a smirk, or maybe a smile—at them on their way out. </p><p>***</p><p>Draco bends Hermione over the edge of his bed without any preamble. Her surprised squeal is muffled into the mattress as he kicks her feet wider and peels up her skirt. </p><p>“What—“ She pushes up on her elbows, and he shoves her back down with a firm hand between her shoulder blades. </p><p>“Down,” he orders. “Stay there.” </p><p>“What are you—“ </p><p>He rucks her skirt all the way up to her waist and gropes roughly at her backside, decorated today in black lace cut high to expose her cheeks. </p><p>“What do you think?” </p><p>“But I didn’t do anything—“ She gasps when he yanks her knickers off, stepping out in automatic obedience when he taps each ankle. </p><p>“It’s not a punishment,” Draco replies. “It’s because I want to turn your pretty arse pink.” </p><p>He doesn’t miss the shiver that ripples down her spine. She is quiet for the moment it takes him to rummage through the drawer of his bedside table, and with neither of them speaking the room is full of the harsh pants of her breath, ringing in his ears along with the thud of his own pulse. </p><p>When he finds what he is looking for, he orders, “Give me your hands.” </p><p>They creep up over her head, stretched along the mattress, one on top of the other. Draco leans over her, holds her wrists together with one hand, and closes her fingers around a glass paperweight. It is smooth and round and charmed to turn to a puff of red smoke if she unclenches her fist. </p><p>“Do you remember how to use this?” he asks. </p><p>“Yes,” she says impatiently, “but I can just say—“</p><p>He stuffs her knickers into her mouth. </p><p>Her wide eyes track him as he stands back up, her head craned over her shoulder. He hums with approval at the sight of her, arranged to his liking, her arse thrust up and out, her face brilliant red. The skin over her knuckles is stretched thin with her grip on the paperweight, which is how he knows he is free to skim a palm up her thigh and enjoy his handiwork. </p><p>Really, this is for her. She is strung nearly as tightly as she had been the night he’d taken her home, and Draco is determined to find another way to relieve the pent-up emotion. He has a suspicion she needs a good cry, and he’d prefer it not be because she has internalized her anxiety as shame. He intends to give her a much better reason. </p><p>All that isn’t to say he’ll get nothing out of it. She looks positively edible with her legs spread like this, wobbling ever-so-slightly in her heels, her cunt already glistening. He hasn’t gagged her often—can’t remember the last time he’s searched for the charmed paperweight—but she looks so ruined with a mouthful of black lace that he just might make a habit of it. He hums his appreciation and caresses the curve of her arse with one hand while the other goes to his belt buckle. </p><p>Hermione twitches at the jangle of the metal, and then again at the hiss of the leather through the loops of his trousers. </p><p>He pauses. </p><p>The belt is for her hands, to keep them where he’s put them. He leans back over her to cinch it around her wrists, her back warm through his shirt. He could swear she gives a tiny sigh of relief. Or maybe disappointment. </p><p>Did she think—?</p><p>He tucks that away for later. Right now is not the time to talk about new limits. Right now, she needs the sensation in her body to drown out her mind. She needs to be freed from decisions, from responsibilities, from everything except what Draco gives her. </p><p>He kisses the top of her head, straightens back up, and swings. </p><p>The first collision of his palm against her skin is always shockingly loud in the silence of their anticipation. He lands another smack on the opposite side in the span of a breath, transfixed by the movement of her flesh and the blooming red imprint of his hand. </p><p>Again and again he lays blows over her arse and the backs of her thighs. Hermione moans through the gag of her knickers and arches prettily up to meet him. </p><p>“You like it,” he pants, “don’t you? Like being at my mercy. Like the pain.” He runs a hand firmly over the reddening welts, burning beneath his touch. She cries out at the pressure on her sensitive skin, mouth working around the fabric, chin slick with saliva. </p><p>“You are such a good girl.” Two sharp smacks right where arse meets thigh. “So beautiful like this for me.” Another hit, hard, in the same place, and Hermione wails. </p><p>“I know,” he croons. “You can take it.” He is merciless, aiming quick hits that keep her pressing up onto her toes to avoid the pain even as the next second she rocks back to meet it. “Let go. I’ve got you.” </p><p>Faster than he can blink she reaches the inflection point he’s been seeking, and her plaintive cry breaks into a sob. The bright red of her face has gone blotchy, and tears spill over the mottled skin. He pulls her knickers from her mouth to make sure she can breathe, then returns to the task before him. </p><p>On his next smack, Hermione cries harder. “Hurts,” she chokes. </p><p>“I know, darling,” he murmurs, soothing the skin with a gentle slide of his palm. “You’re taking it so well.” </p><p>Another blow, and another and another. Hermione buries her face in the comforter and sobs, but she keeps her hands clenched. She doesn’t speak. She has two ways out, and she doesn’t take either.</p><p>For his part, Draco is surprised by how deeply satisfying it is to have reduced her to tears, knowing that she could stop him but has chosen not to. The idea that she trusts him this completely is so lovely it is hard to believe, but the evidence is right in front of him. He lines up his hand again and again, and again and again she lets him.</p><p>Finally a stroke makes her howl something shaped like his name. He stills, then lets his hand fall lightly to the small of her back, over the wrinkled fabric of her skirt, grounding. </p><p>“What is it?” he asks her softly. </p><p>“Please,” she whimpers. </p><p>He rubs gently over her back. “All done?”</p><p>Still crying quietly, she nods against the bed. </p><p>He blows out a long breath and reaches to free her wrists, massaging the skin where the belt has left reddened lines. “You did so good,” he whispers, ducking down to kiss her hair. “You were perfect.” </p><p>She sniffles and picks her head up, rising gingerly on her elbows. Draco kisses her tear-streaked face all over, soft presses of his mouth over her brow, her nose, her cheeks, her jaw. He pulls her carefully the rest of the way onto the bed and helps her wriggle out of her blouse and bra. The skirt, he slits down one side with a flick of his wand—no way is he going to get it off over her backside. </p><p>When he has her bare and arranged on her stomach, he sets to kissing down the notches of her spine and exploring her back with his fingertips, prodding for sore spots and knotted muscle. She melts under the attention until she is a puddle of soft sighs and sleepy murmurs. Only then does he summon the jar of salve from his medicine cabinet and scoop out a generous portion.</p><p>“This will help,” he tells her. “But it might feel uncomfortable at first.” </p><p>Hermione nods. With one hand on the small of her back, he sets the other to the tormented skin of her arse. Hermione hisses when the cool ointment touches her reddened flesh, and he makes soothing shushing noises as he coats every inch of welted skin. She is panting by the end of it, so in repayment he kisses back up her spine, lingering on every vertebra. </p><p>When he sits up to check on her, she is fast asleep.</p><p>***</p><p>Hermione stirs a few hours later from under the blanket Draco has draped over her. He looks up from his book and puts it aside in favor of settling one hand on her hair, stroking softly as she blinks awake. </p><p>“Draco,” she murmurs. </p><p>“Hello, love.” His hand keeps up its soothing rhythm in her hair. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>She shifts and stretches. “Sore in the obvious places, but otherwise...good. Really good.”</p><p>He hums in approval. She folds her arms and leans her head atop them, gazing up at him. Her mouth purses suddenly. “You didn’t get off.”</p><p>He tips his head, noncommittal. “Neither did you.”</p><p>“Were you not...was it not good for you?”</p><p>His mouth tugs into a half-smile. “Oh, it was. That just wasn’t the point.”</p><p>“If neither of us finished,” she grumbles, “then what was the point?”</p><p>He chuckles. “To give you a way to process your emotions. To let you feel them and then release them.”</p><p>She nods, thoughtful, and wipes absently at the dried tears on her face. Draco is reminded that they are both a little sticky and offers, “You want me to run you a bath?”</p><p>“Oh. That sounds lovely.” </p><p>Draco summons his wand as he steps into the washroom. A few flicks of his wrist set the water running and the banks of candles alight, and then movement from the bedroom catches his eye. </p><p>“Ah-ah.” Hermione has pushed up to her hands and knees and looks like she is twisting to sit on the bed. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” </p><p>“Spanked a lot of girls, have you?” she grouses. </p><p>He laughs and walks to the bed to maneuver her into his arms, one under her knees and the other supporting her shoulders. “Mostly you,” he tells her. “I’m just extrapolating from past experience.” </p><p>He carries her to the bath and sets her on her feet by the tub, now full of perfectly warm water infused with lavender oil. “Wait here.” He strips out of his clothes and climbs into the bath, then reaches for her. “Come sit.” </p><p>Hermione steps gingerly over the edge of the tub, one foot and then the other planted on either side of his legs. His hands rise to her hips to steady her as she sinks into his lap and leans against his chest. The water sloshes as he wraps his arms around her, tugging her close to keep all her weight on her front. </p><p>“There you go,” he murmurs. “How’s that?” </p><p>Hermione sighs and rests her head against his shoulder, face turned inward so that he can feel the puffs of her breath against the hollow of his throat. “Perfect.” </p><p>He sets his chin on the crown of her head and rubs up and down her back, slow and rhythmic until he is half-asleep himself. Her body is lax and easy in his arms, all of the earlier tightness gone. Pride settles warm in his chest that he can do this for her, that he knows her well enough to draw the tension from her muscles and her mind alike. </p><p>He doesn’t know how long they stay curled up together in the magically-temperate water, just that his eyes are drooping when Hermione tips her head and presses a kiss against the hollow of his throat. He gives a pleased hum, and she does it again, peppering open-mouthed kisses over his shoulders and up his neck. His cock stirs with interest, but he grimaces and ignores it, easing Hermione back by the shoulders. </p><p>“You don’t have to—“ he starts to tell her, and she stops him with her lips over his. Her fingers creep over his abdomen, the muscles jumping beneath her fingers until she curls them around his half-hard length. </p><p>“I owe you,” she says against his mouth. </p><p>“You don’t,” he protests, even as his eyes fall closed and he hardens fully under her touch. “You didn’t—fuck—finish either—“ </p><p>“Please.” Her hand spins wicked things beneath the water, and his hips jump up into the sensation without conscious thought. “Please let me. I want to.”</p><p>“Okay,” he says through his teeth. “Okay, okay, just—“</p><p>He grabs her hips to guide them up and over his cock, his fingers wrapping around her arse and digging into the welts there. She whimpers, her hand flexing on his length where she is lining him up. She sinks slowly onto him, torturously slowly, until she is flush against him and he is nearly delirious with the heat of her cunt around him. </p><p>“Fuck, Hermione. Fuck, fuck—“ She rolls her hips languidly into him, and he drops his head back against the edge of the tub. Her hands splay over her chest as she resumes her little kitten licks across his collarbone. </p><p>Everything is slow and warm and wet. He burns where her skin touches his, and they touch everywhere. He rocks up into her every downstroke, tiny movements of his hips that are enough to bottom him out, they are so close together already. Her hands and mouth are tender and worshipful over his chest, his shoulders, his throat. He straightens up to meet her lips, one hand cradling the back of her skull as their tongues curl lazily together. Her hair is soft in his fingers, and the damp ends spill over them both, sticking to their skin. His other hand skims over her body, from the swell of her breast to the dip of her waist to the inside of her thigh. She moans when his fingers find her clit and begin to rub circles over it, steady and unhurried. They move together at that same easy pace over and over, approaching their climax without any urgency, a little closer with each slide of him inside her. </p><p>His mind drifts, savoring every touch and taste and sound, drunk on it all, until she begins to shudder and clench around him. “Draco,” she sighs. “Draco, I—”</p><p>“Yes,” he says before she can ask. “Yes, yes—”</p><p>He swallows the sound she makes as she tips over the edge, and the fluttering of her walls has him chasing after her with a curse pressed against her mouth. His release pulses through him, augmented by each spasm of her cunt, deep waves of pleasure that crest and recede and leave him limp against the side of the tub. She is no better, her head lolling on his shoulder, her arms thrown around his neck. She hums a contended noise, rumbling like a purr, and he feels it in every bone. </p><p>Later, after he watches her brush out her wet hair in his bathroom mirror, after he dresses her in his pyjamas and tucks her into his bed, he will realize they have made love for the first time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In spite of her punishment, Hermione is perfectly apt to go right back to overextending herself. Having worked against her in school and with her at the Ministry, Draco is all too aware of this fact. He keeps a sharp eye on her for the rest of the week, tries to minimize his own use of her time, and chases her out of her office by six—a generous policy, he thinks, given that their days are supposed to end at half past five. </p><p>She does seem more at ease than she had been before, but research and archiving assignments make a formidable pile on her desk, and she still looks more worn-down than he would like. He can’t quite figure it out, except to say that her tendency to work herself to the bone is more a compulsion than a tendency, and he wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised to find that she has invented some way to do so besides staying late in the office.   </p><p>On Friday, he finds out just that. He’s insisted that Fridays remain reserved for the two of them and has made a habit of whisking her off to dinner before making his dessert of her at his flat. On this particular evening, she spends most of the meal nestled against his side, her head leaned against his shoulder in a gesture he foolishly interprets as affection. </p><p>Then he takes her home and kisses her breathless and leaves her on his bed while he selects a bottle of wine from his kitchen. Before he goes, he tells her exactly how he’d like her to be ready for him by the time he gets back. </p><p>When he returns with bottle in hand and every intention of drinking his share off her skin, he finds her fast asleep. </p><p>Fuck. </p><p>He’d been so diligent about trying to stop her from wearing herself out, yet the evidence of her overtime is right in front of him, snoring softly on his duvet. She must have been taking work home with her, reading and annotating and indexing late into the night, or else coming in even earlier than usual. Probably both, and he ponders how he might punish her for that later. </p><p>For the moment, though, he tucks a blanket around her, kisses the top of her head, and slips out of the room.</p><p>Back in his kitchen, he eyes the wine in dismay before uncorking it and taking a swig straight from the bottle. He scrubs a hand over his face and digs his fingers into his eyes where they burn behind his lids. Hours spent poring over tiny, faded writing haven’t done him any favors. He’ll have to ask Harry to go into the field more. There’s always the possibility that he’ll die in the line of duty, but at least he wouldn’t have such a fucking headache. </p><p>Regrettably, that won’t solve his other headache, currently asleep in his room. Christ. When it was just sex, she was hardly ever disobedient. Now, it seems he punishes her more often than not. </p><p>And the punishment, strictly speaking, isn’t what he minds; there is something sinfully wonderful about bending her to his will. It’s that there is something equally lovely about him not having to—about her choosing to submit—that he misses very much. </p><p>Logically, he gets it. The way they see each other outside of work has shifted. In the past, every encounter was a scene. She had a defined role, and they’d been doing it long enough that there was virtually no uncertainty. They knew so well every step to their dance of give-and-take—her giving, him taking—that it was easy for her to turn her mind off and sink into the safety of his control. </p><p>In this version of their relationship, they are bringing together more than that one facet of their personalities. From what he’s heard about her partners in the past, she’s never mixed this part of herself with anything else, never had anything but no-strings-attached arrangements. Surely it feels uncertain and unsafe to be so vulnerable. Surely she is still figuring out how to navigate this new territory. </p><p>And yet it makes him grind his teeth. She might not have had fully-fledged relationships that involved their dynamic, but he has, and he doesn’t think he’s so awful at it. He’s not asking her to wear a dog collar into the office. He just wants her to let him look out for her, to let him make her feel safe the way he always has. </p><p>His head pounds. He is more exhausted than he realized, worn down from fighting with her like this. When they aren’t at odds, everything fits together so nicely. She gets security, and in equal measure he gets trust—the heady rush of pride that she finds him smart enough and strong enough and <em>good</em> enough to take care of them both. He knows it’s just that this is new, and she is anxious, but her obstinance feels like a repudiation of his worthiness, and he’s really fucking tired of it.</p><p>He recorks the wine and tiptoes back into his bedroom. Hermione hardly stirs while he undresses and brushes his teeth in the dark and searches through his medicine cabinet for something to ease the throbbing in his temples. </p><p>When he gets under the covers with her, she doesn’t wake, but she does curl around him in her sleep. With her head tucked under his chin and one arm thrown over his ribs, she gives a contented little sigh that eases some of the ache behind his eyes before the potion has a chance to kick in. </p><p>He takes deep breaths. She’s just figuring this new thing out, and then she’ll turn back into his good girl. He just has to be patient. </p><p>***</p><p>Saturday morning, Draco wakes up alone. Not unusual—Hermione is an early riser even on the weekends, and she is frequently humming off-key in the shower or making tea in the kitchen by the time he is out of bed. </p><p>Today, though, the flat is silent. The bathroom holds some evidence of her in the form of yesterday’s clothes in the hamper, but the woman herself is absent. She’s not in the kitchen or the living room, and given that she has no reason to be in one of the guest rooms, that only leaves one choice—the room that should’ve been his first guess.</p><p>His headache starts to come back. </p><p>When he pushes open the heavy mahogany door of his office, she is right where he expects—posted up at his desk, dwarfed equally by his leather wing-backed chair and her towers of files. </p><p>She is wearing one of his sleep shirts, her hair a riot of unkempt curls down her back. She looks up, startled at the noise of the hinges, and then smiles a little sheepishly when he steps inside. “Hi,” she says. </p><p>“Working already?”</p><p>“Just catching up. I’m still behind with some of these documents.” </p><p>“I see,” he drawls. “How long have you been up?” </p><p>“Oh.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Not long. A couple of hours, maybe.” </p><p>No wonder there are still shadows under her eyes. </p><p>Draco curses her for being such a workaholic. Then he curses himself for taking on the care of such a stubborn little witch. </p><p>But, he reminds himself, he knows how to turn her pliant. That is what he has to do, just more often now than in the past, and if he shows her enough times that she can trust him, she’ll get better. </p><p>And punishing her is not such a chore. Even with the beginnings of his headache, he feels arousal stir in his loins at the intoxicating prospect of making her behave. He crosses the room to her with half a mind to bend her over his desk, especially with the dark hunger blooming in her eyes as she tracks his every step. </p><p>But if that is what she wants—well, then it’s hardly a suitable punishment. Fortunately, he can think of a few other things, not the least of which is a persistent fantasy that cannot be acted out in their actual office, but also cannot be shaken from Draco’s subconscious, and <em>can</em> be acted out right now.</p><p>He stops beside her. Hermione’s face is turned up to him. He can see her pulse fluttering in her throat. </p><p>Good.</p><p>“Here,” he says, motioning for her to stand. “I’ll sit with you.” </p><p>She looks dubiously at the chair, generous in its proportions but still decidedly only built for one. </p><p>Had he said he was going to be patient? Well. He’s a reformed Death Eater, but not a saint.</p><p>“Get up,” he snaps. </p><p>She scrambles to obey this time. </p><p>Draco sprawls in the chair and pulls Hermione unceremoniously into his lap. She makes a little squeak of surprise, but he holds her firm with his arms around her middle.</p><p>“There we go,” he says in her ear. “Comfortable?” </p><p>She shifts and squirms in his lap. Some of his frustration scatters to make way for delicious friction of her perfect arse nestled squarely against his hardening cock, spiking with her every move.</p><p>“You’re—but I’m—” She huffs the words as if she is cross with him, but he knows better. When she’s actually cross, she is quite capable of complete sentences. </p><p>“Go on,” he says lightly. “You said you had work to do.” </p><p>“You’re going to sit here while I read?” she asks, her voice disbelieving. “For hours?”</p><p>“You let me worry about what I’m going to do.” </p><p>She fidgets a bit more before she is settled, but eventually she goes back to her color-coordinating. He admires her work ethic, really, or at least the higher-minded part of his brain does. Something more primal takes perverse delight in how she thinks she’s gotten away with being a workaholic, and a brat to boot. She has no idea what she’s in for. </p><p>He waits a few minutes, lets her think she is home free, before he nuzzles against her neck and sets his teeth to her skin in little nips that make her shiver. </p><p>“I thought I was working,” she murmurs. </p><p>“Don’t mind me,” he rumbles, his mouth still against her skin. She sighs as his tongue laves the reddened marks his teeth leave behind. When the entire column of her neck bears the evidence of his ministrations, he lets his hands drift down until he is palming her thighs, tugging them wider to get at the dampening gusset of her knickers. Her head lolls back onto his shoulder when he strokes her firmly through the fabric, but he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Now, now. I thought you had work to do.”</p><p>“Draco,” she whines. “What are you—”</p><p>Her voice breaks into a gasp as he tugs her knickers aside and swipes his fingers along her slit. She is wet—wet enough—so he works a hand between them to free his cock from the confines of his pyjamas. She catches on to his aim and helps him maneuver her up and over his length, then back down until she has taken him to the hilt with a keening cry. </p><p>Draco swears at the heavenly tug of her cunt, not quite as slick and lax as he would usually ensure before they got to this point. The urge to rut up into her is nearly overpowering, but he is playing the long game this time, so he doesn’t budge even as she mewls pitifully. Gravity and his tight grip on her hips pull her snug against his lap, her body still limp, her eyes closed and mouth open. He pinches her thigh in rebuke. </p><p>“Go on,” he orders through his teeth. “Get back to work.”</p><p>She gasps. “But—but you’re—”  </p><p>He pinches again, harder this time, and she cries out. “You want to work so badly, you go right ahead,” he growls. </p><p>“Draco—please—I can’t—”</p><p>“You can, and you will.” His fingers press another bruise into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. “Or isn’t your pretty little cunt mine to use as I please?”   </p><p>She whimpers and whines, her hips rocking desperately over his. His pinch turns to a slap, hard over the abused skin, and she rushes out, “Yes sir—”</p><p>“Better,” he allows. “You want to work, and I want your cunt wrapped around my cock. I think I’m being very patient, waiting for you like this, don’t you agree?” His voice turns sly, his lips a smirk against her neck. “Go on, then, princess. Be a good little cock-warmer for me.” </p><p>Her walls flutter around him, her breath coming in harsh pants. “I—I—” </p><p>“Keep talking back,” he threatens, “and I’ll make it worse on you.”  </p><p>She squeaks a tiny sound of fear and reaches for her quill. Her hands tremble as she leans forward, and she gasps when the movement changes the angle of his cock inside her. At his warning growl, she buttons her mouth closed and writes a shaky signature on a form, then sets the folder aside in favor of another from the still-towering stack to her left.   </p><p>Draco lazes in the chair, watching her struggle, feeling her pulse and quiver around him. The urge to fuck her until she screams takes background to the hazy drunken sensation of being engulfed in her heat, listening to the little whining sounds of her desperation. Her compliance—rather late in coming though it was—is nearly as satisfying as being buried in her slick folds. </p><p>This is why, he muses, his cock-warming fantasy never faded. It’s a shame they can’t do it at his desk at work, but this will more than suffice. Maybe he’ll let her fall into overworking herself again, just every once in a while, in order to exact the same punishment in the future. </p><p>He floats in the pleasure of her for what feels like hours but can’t be more than fifteen minutes before Hermione is beside herself. The fabric of his pyjama pants beneath her is drenched in her arousal, and her skin is scorching hot where he is pressed up against it. Her voice is one long whimper, her body a spring wound too tight. </p><p>“Something the matter, princess?”</p><p>“Draco—please—” she all but sobs. The sound races, hot and heady, through his veins. </p><p>“Please, what? I thought you wanted time to work outside the office. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all week?” </p><p>“I just—took a few—files home—” She breaks off with a sharp gasp as he rolls his hips, a slow upward movement that fills her to the brim. </p><p>“And stayed up late?” he prompts. “Got up early? Both?”</p><p>“Yes,” she whines, high-pitched and needy. “Yes, alright—”</p><p>He rocks up into her again, stealing the breath from her lungs. “You knew. You knew I wouldn’t want you to work so much, so you hid it from me.” </p><p>Draco sets a filthy grind of their hips, torturously slow, and starts to unbutton her shirt. His hands skate up her stomach to cup her breasts, squeezing the mounds and taking her nipples between his fingers. He pinches down, hard, even as his thrusts are languid and easy, and she cries out. </p><p>“Please,” she whimpers. “Please, please.”</p><p>“What do you want? You want me to take care of you?”</p><p>She cants her hips down against his. “Yes, sir, please—”</p><p>He twists her nipples harshly. “Then <em>let me</em>. Stop hiding.”</p><p>“Yes.” Her words are softer, half-broken, and he knows he has her then. “I won’t anymore. I promise.”</p><p>“You’ll behave?” He sets his teeth to the shell of her ear. Each thrust grows a little harder, spearing her open. “You’ll trust me? You’ll be good?” </p><p>He already knows the answer, knows from her voice that he has finally settled her into the right headspace. Pride mingles with the coiling heat growing tighter and tighter at the base of his spine. </p><p>“Yes, sir.” </p><p>There is his confirmation, the way she sounds dazed and drunken, fucked-out just the way he likes. His hands drop to her waist to hold her still so he can pick up the pace, his muscles starting to ache. </p><p>“Good,” he snarls, half to himself. “Or else I’ll keep you here—have to watch you to make sure—never let you out of my sight—”  </p><p>The words are a ramble as his peak approaches, and he assumes she is no better off, except she mumbles, “Yes. Please.” </p><p>He wants to ask her what she is responding to. Wants to, but a string of curses tumbles out of his mouth instead, and he moves a hand to the apex of her thighs to rub frantic circles on her clit. He’s suddenly half-blind with need, barely holding on. “Come,” he orders, his voice strained.  </p><p>She shatters in his arms. His mind is a whirl of the sensations and colors and sounds of <em>her</em>, her keening cry in his ears, her pulsing cunt around his cock, milking his release from him in long spurts of his seed.</p><p>When he returns to himself, his softening cock is slipping free of her. Their spend is a mess over her thighs, and even sated as he is his mouth waters at the sight. How he loves to wreck her like this. How astonishing it is that she lets him. </p><p>He sets himself to the task of putting her back together, shifting her in his arms so she is snuggled in his lap with her head against his shoulder. She looks up at him with half-shut eyes. He smiles. </p><p>“Let me take you back to bed,” he murmurs. “You need more sleep.”</p><p>“Should get going,” she mumbles back. </p><p>He doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you go anywhere right now.” </p><p>Surprise, however muted by her current state, flickers across her face. “I can’t take up your whole weekend.” </p><p>He lays a kiss on her hair. “You aren’t. I’m taking up yours.” His thumbs trace little circles over her skin. “Stay here. Take a nap. I’ll order dinner. We’ll do whatever else it is you do on the weekends.” </p><p>She is nearly asleep already. “Okay.” </p><p>He is fairly sure his legs will carry them both, so he stands with her and takes her back to bed. As he lays her out and pulls the covers over her, her hand drifts to his empty place beside her.</p><p>“You’ll stay?” she slurs, eyes closed. </p><p>His heart lurches. “Yes,” he tells her. He gets into bed with her and gathers her to himself. “I’ll stay.”</p><p>***</p><p>When he wakes up the second time that day, mid-afternoon sun slants across his face, and he is alone again. </p><p>This time, though, he can hear the distant sound of Hermione’s humming, and he can smell something delightful. Certainly nothing in his office smells like that. </p><p>He gets up and runs a hand through his messy hair. He needs a shower, and probably a shave, but also to see whatever is happening in his kitchen, so he abandons the former two in favor of pulling on new pyjama pants and heading down the hall. </p><p>The kitchen is a flurry of activity. Two pots are stirring themselves on the stove, while dishes are scrubbing briskly in the sink. Hermione is chopping vegetables by hand at his island, dressed in a different one of his shirts, her hair damp and her face bright. </p><p>“Oh!” she exclaims when she sees him. “I didn’t realize you were up! Here, I—”</p><p>She fetches a kettle off the back burner of the stove—he hadn’t even seen it behind everything else—and pours him a cup of tea with a practiced tilt of her wrist. He takes the proffered cup at the same time he registers the oven is on, the dark shape of something sizzling inside. </p><p>“What’s all this?” he asks, somewhat overwhelmed. </p><p>“I, um.” She looks down at her bare feet. “I’m sorry about earlier. I do trust you. Of course I do.” She gestures back at the magical hubbub. “I thought—it doesn’t make it up to you, not really, but I thought—you might like it if I made brunch. Though really it’s afternoon, so it’s sort of lunch and dinner, but there isn’t a word for that.” She tucks back a wet curl and peers up at his face. “I don’t—you don’t have to like it, or eat any of it—we can go out, or I can go, or—”</p><p>He grabs her wrist. “Stop, stop.” He can’t help but chuckle at the very Hermione-esque string of sentences, even knowing anxiety is what underpins them, and he stoops to kiss away her worry. “I just didn’t know that you cooked. It seems very...domestic of you.”</p><p>She lifts her eyebrows in a haughty gesture that is equally Hermione-esque. “Surely I’m not going to have you give you the lecture that domesticity and femininity are neither equal nor opposite. Women are just as apt to like cooking as they are to dislike it, and the point is that we can choose which—”</p><p>“Yes, alright,” he laughs. “No, I know. I just had no idea that you, specifically, liked to cook.”  </p><p>“It’s just like Potions! Or maybe Potions is like cooking.” She cocks her head, thoughtful, for a beat. “Well, either way. You have to follow the recipe—the formula—and have the right ingredients, but you also have to have a sense of it. Everyone has their own style, and two people can follow the same instructions and get two different results.” </p><p>“I always was better than you at Potions,” he muses, and she rolls her eyes. </p><p>“You most certainly were not. Snape just liked you better.” </p><p>“I was also more likable,” he agrees. She snorts and goes back to chopping vegetables. </p><p>“You were possibly <em>as good</em> at Potions as I was,” she allows. “Which probably means you’d make an excellent cook.”</p><p>“Maybe you can teach me.” </p><p>She smiles down at her cutting board. “I’d be happy to.” </p><p>He pulls one of the island stools around to the side to sit and watch her work, his hands curled around his teacup. “So teach me—why are you doing that by hand? You’ve obviously used magic for most everything else.” </p><p>The swift, sure movements of her knife pause. “I learned to cook from my parents, obviously without magic. I still like doing some things the Muggle way.” The cutting resumes, slower this time. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I think it works better like this.”</p><p>Possibly that is the only irrational thing Hermione Granger has ever believed. Draco doesn’t touch it. He knows only the broadest strokes of what happened to her parents—they aren’t dead, but they aren’t in her life—and he has won enough vulnerability for one weekend. He’ll ask her about them later, when they haven’t just had a sort-of spat. Maybe when she is wearing pants. </p><p>“What are you making?” he asks instead. </p><p>She points with her knife in turn, starting with the oven. “Roast duck—gravy—potatoes—” She returns to the cutting board. “These are for stew later, from the bones.” </p><p>He whistles. “Quite a spread.”</p><p>She flushes a pretty pink. “It’s nothing, really.”</p><p>He falls quiet while she finishes dicing, listening to the bubbling of the potatoes and the crackling of the roast and the rhythmic tapping of her blade. She summons a pot he didn’t know he had from a cupboard he couldn’t have identified and sweeps the vegetables from the cutting board with the back of her knife. The pot goes on the fourth burner of his stove before Hermione crouches down to peer inside the oven. </p><p>He realizes something. “Did I have an entire duck in my ice box I’d forgotten about?”</p><p>“Ah. Yes. Well.” She turns back to him and clears her throat. “I was banging around in here, looking to see what you did have, and…Well, I didn’t know you could share elves between multiple households.”</p><p>He blows out a breath. Hermione’s passion for activism has faded only slightly since school; their department loses her twice a month to sit on a Ministry Committee for the Well-Being of Magical Creatures. He knew this was coming eventually. </p><p>“You can’t. It’s all the Malfoy household, just different locations. House-elves can apparate anywhere.” </p><p>She purses her lips. “Yes, I know.” </p><p>“I understand our elves haven’t been treated appropriately in the past,” he starts, but she waves a hand. </p><p>“Velly told me all about how different things have been since your father...now that your father isn’t in the house. She had some very lovely things to say about your mother, in fact.”</p><p>Draco winces. Apparently they are going to talk about parents today. </p><p>“I’ll admit I’m not thrilled by it,” Hermione continues. “But Velly was quite clear she didn’t want to be freed.”</p><p>He raises an eyebrow. “You asked her if she wanted to be freed?”</p><p>“No, of course not. I told her you’d free her immediately, and she declined.” </p><p>He puts his head down on the counter. “You are the worst submissive on earth,” he groans, voice muffled by the marble. </p><p>“You knew what you were getting into,” she says breezily. “Anyway, then she said you usually ordered out on the weekends, but she’d be happy to make something, but then I told her I was going to cook and was just looking for ingredients, and…” She twists her fingers together. “Well, long story short, I’m afraid I may have stolen a duck from your mother.” </p><p>He bursts into laughter. “She favors a well-stocked pantry. This fellow was part of a whole flock, I’m certain.” </p><p>“You’re sure it’s alright?” </p><p>“Completely.” </p><p>She visibly relaxes and goes back to bustling around the kitchen, stirring this and seasoning that. He likes the look of her this way, flitting from stove to counter and back again as if she belongs here. As if she’s been cooking in this kitchen for years. </p><p>She sets the table with the same precision with which she does everything, plates and flatware and wine glasses, all the way down to cloth napkins. He can’t remember ever using the cloth napkins his mother had insisted he take when he moved out of the Manor. Truthfully he can’t even remember the last time he ate at the table. </p><p>He takes one of the chairs and watches her levitate the roast from the oven, then carve it with practiced ease and dump the bones in one of the pots. The whole thing comes together before his eyes, magic whether she is using spells or not. Before he can blink he has a plate of steaming food in front of him, a glass of wine in his hand, and a suddenly-shy Hermione hovering at his side, waiting for him to take a bite. </p><p>The roast is delicious, because of course it is, because how could Hermione Granger set out to do something and do it poorly? He tells her so, and she beams, stunning in his half-buttoned shirt and her full-blown smile.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Velly is canon because she is from Musyc's <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/100613">Ardent Bonds</a>. </p><p>So appreciative of the feedback so far. Thanks to all for your kind words! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Monday morning, Harry strides into Draco’s office and helps himself to the chair opposite the desk. He has a smarmy grin on his face, and he fixes it on Draco expectantly, waiting for the other man to speak. </p><p>Draco lifts an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”</p><p>“Had any guests this morning?” Harry asks, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees. </p><p>Which reminds Draco—he should probably get rid of that visitor’s chair. It implies he wants visitors, which he most certainly does not. The only problem would be that Hermione sits in it for their meetings. She always pulls it up close to the desk so they can put their heads together over their work, and if she is wearing her hair down, he gets a tantalizing hint of the floral aroma that clings to her curls. </p><p>Maybe they could move their meetings to her office. The whole room has that faint scent of her. He wonders if it is perfume, but it seems unlikely that she spends money or time on perfume. It must be a shampoo, or a lotion. </p><p>If only he could convince her to have their meetings in his lap—they wouldn’t need the other chair at all, and he could bury his nose in her tresses to get his fill. Really, it would make it easier to read the same document, too. That would be the most efficient solution, and he—</p><p>“Malfoy.” Harry snaps his fingers, startling Draco out of his plans. </p><p>“Right. Sorry.” He rubs his eyes. No guests at all, not even Hermione, and so he hasn’t had any tea yet. “No, no one’s been in.” </p><p>He glances down at his appointment book, which is blank for the morning. Was he supposed to have a meeting?</p><p>“Really?” Harry’s face falters, then brightens. “What about owls?” </p><p>Draco waves his hand vaguely toward his inbox. “Oh, a few. I haven’t had a chance to look at them yet.”</p><p>Harry seizes the pile of envelopes in the metal tray and begins shuffling through them. Draco watches in bemusement as his boss snoops through his mail, supposing he can’t really stop it from happening. </p><p>“Ah ha!” Harry holds up an ornate envelope made of heavy, perfectly white parchment. It is sealed with golden wax and addressed in calligraphy, all of which Draco thinks is rather excessive for an interdepartmental memo—and he is a person accustomed to excess. “Open this!”</p><p>Draco takes the envelope wordlessly from Harry’s outstretched hand and slits it open. The letter inside is only two lines, its content far dwarfed by the looping signature and the official seal below it. The signature and seal of— </p><p>“The Minister was in my office an hour ago,” Harry says eagerly. “He was very impressed with our work on the cold case you just closed. I told him you were the lead, and he said he would come congratulate you personally. I’ll admit, the man isn’t very good at details, but an owl is still a high honor.” </p><p>Draco stares, first at the parchment, then at Harry. “This is a congratulatory letter from the Minister of Magic?”</p><p>The smarmy grin in back. Harry looks terribly pleased with himself. “It is.” </p><p>Draco blinks back at the parchment. He has been heretofore operating under the assumption that the Minister—being not very good with details—has simply never realized Harry pulled an ex-Death Eater from a low-level Finance position into the Auror training program. At best, he figured the Minister indulged Harry with the transfer, never expecting Draco to make it through training in one piece, and then forgot to check back. </p><p>There must be some mistake, some oversight. Maybe the letter has been mis-delivered. He checks—no, it’s his name on the envelope. Mis-addressed, then? Some poor son of a bitch in Finance is probably weeping into his spreadsheets over the letter of termination he’s just received, and Draco is holding the man’s commendation. </p><p>“Malfoy,” Harry says loudly. “You’re making me think twice about that decision.”</p><p>“What?” Draco sets the letter carefully on his desk. “Were you saying something?”</p><p>“I was saying, I want to send you into the field some. Not all the time, but you’ve shown your trustworthiness several times over—for years—and now the Minister approves.” </p><p>Draco blinks. The idea of asking for a chance to get out of the office has been dancing around his mind for a while. The only thing stopping him has been his certainty that Harry would never approve that much freedom, but now—”Yes,” he blurts, lest the opportunity pass him by. “Yes, that would be—good. Great.”   </p><p>Harry’s mouth twitches with mirth. “Good. You’ll have your first assignment by the end of the week.” He stands and buttons his robes to leave, then stops in the doorway to look back at Draco. “Congratulations, mate.”</p><p>Draco swallows around the emotion suddenly thick in his throat. “Um. Thanks.” </p><p>Harry laughs as he disappears down the hall, and Draco drops his face into his hands. “Smooth,” he mutters to himself. Just the slightest glimmer of feelings, and years of elocution lessons go right down the drain. </p><p>Draco rises from his chair after a moment and lifts the letter gingerly from his desk, as if it might shatter if he grips it too hard. What is he supposed to do now? He could frame it, or possibly his mother will want to hang it on her refrigerator. Should he write the Minister back, a thank-you note for what is essentially a thank-you note? </p><p>He feels sure there is some particular thing he needs to do. He just can’t quite put his finger on what. Then he is moving before he realizes it, his legs carrying him down the hall until he is faced with Hermione’s closed office door. He lets himself in without bothering to knock, or even thinking to. </p><p>“I’m quite busy, which you may have gathered from the—” Hermione’s voice is testy, but she breaks off when she looks up and realizes who has barged in unannounced. “Draco—oh, I was about to bring you—”</p><p>She is reaching for a cup and saucer but stops short a second time when he thrusts the letter out to her. She takes the parchment, and her eyes go wide a beat later. She reads the letter more carefully, top to bottom, and then looks up at him with a brilliant smile. “Draco, this is wonderful!” She stands and circles her desk to him. </p><p>“He was supposed to come by my office,” Draco tells her. “But Harry says he’s not very good with details, so I got the letter instead.”</p><p>“Oh, forget the details! You got a commendation from the Minister of Magic!” </p><p>He draws back, incredulous. “Did you just say ‘forget the details’? Have you been replaced by someone on Polyjuice—”</p><p>She surprises him by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him squarely on the mouth. He freezes in shock, and then it is over, anyway, Hermione dropping down off her tiptoes and grinning up at him. </p><p>Nope. Definitely not Polyjuice Potion. The way she arched into him with the kiss, the sparkling of her honey-colored eyes, the gentle pressure of her thumbs where she has laced her fingers behind his neck—all entirely familiar, entirely Hermione. </p><p>“I’m so proud of you,” she says fondly. </p><p>Emotion lodges in his throat again, jumping up to strangle his words. He breathes hard around it and forces out, “You don’t think it’s a mistake?” </p><p>It is Hermione’s turn to freeze, her big eyes locked on his face, her hands still on his neck. She takes a step closer so that she is flush against him again, and he grabs at her waist to hold her there. He needn’t have; she doesn’t move away. </p><p>“Draco,” she says softly, “Why would you think that?”</p><p>He looks helplessly down at his forearm. The Mark isn’t visible through his robes, which is why he hasn’t forgone them as Hermione does. In just his shirtsleeves, the outline is obvious through anything but black fabric. </p><p>She has seen it dozens of times by now. Hundreds. She swears it doesn’t bother her, but…</p><p>“No one cares about that anymore,” she says firmly. “It’s been years.”</p><p>“I would hardly say <em>no one</em>—“</p><p>“No one who matters.” Her eyes flash with something fierce. “Listen to me. I mean it.”</p><p>A breath in, and out. The lump in his throat shrinks enough to let air move around it. </p><p>“Thank you,” he tells her. </p><p>“You—“ She presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “—are quite welcome.” Then she does move away. Grudging he lets her, and she takes the cup and saucer from her desk and hands them over. The tea has been charmed to keep warm, and he smiles as he brings the cup to his lips. </p><p>The letter, she scoops up off her desk and looks over again. “I’m going to frame this,” she says decisively. </p><p>He knew she would know what to do. </p><p>***</p><p>Harry insists they go for celebratory drinks after work. “First round’s on me,” he says jovially, clinking his glass against Theo’s. “But after this you’re on your own. I’m on a government salary here, and you two gits have extraordinarily expensive taste in liquor.”</p><p>Theo sniffs haughtily. “How dare you. I have extraordinarily expensive taste in everything.” </p><p>Hermione is rolling her eyes from behind her wine glass. “As if any of you gits <em>have</em> to work at all. I’m the only one here who needs a salary.” </p><p>Draco has knocked back half his whiskey already, which is enough to let him drape his arm around her and drawl, “Any time you’d like to become a kept woman, love, you just let me know.” </p><p>They all laugh, but Draco doesn’t miss the way her cheeks burn. </p><p>They pass the evening pleasantly until Harry remarks that he has better call it a night. Draco and Theo go to the bar to pay their tabs, and when they return to their respective partners, Harry pipes up, “Before I forget—we’ve got four tickets to the Holyhead Harpies match on Friday. Want to join us?” </p><p>Hermione sucks in a breath and turns to Draco, bouncing on her toes. “Oh, can we?” she asks eagerly. “Please?” </p><p>“Sure we can,” he says easily, even as her polite inquiry makes his blood run hot. She doesn’t have to ask nicely in public, or outside the bedroom at all. Lately, when they are alone, she has been sweet like this regardless of where they are, but he can’t remember her doing it in front of someone else before. </p><p>If Harry and Theo think anything of it—and Theo at least knows enough about Draco’s proclivities to understand the exchange—they don’t bat an eye. “Splendid,” is all Harry says, and he sounds genuine. “See you both tomorrow.”</p><p>The two men go to the Apparation point together and leave hand-in-hand. Draco feels a flare of envy and looks down at Hermione, who is leaning her head against his shoulder quietly. Who has been lovely to him all day today. All day every day for coming up on two years. </p><p>He has the sudden sense he has been wasting time again. </p><p>He curls an arm around her waist. “Do me a favor.” </p><p>Hermione angles her face up at him. “Anything.” </p><p>That steals his breath for a moment. </p><p>“Come home with me,” he says. </p><p>She smiles. “Yes, sir.” </p><p>***</p><p>The moment they are in this flat, he kisses her ardently, the way he has wanted to all day. She melts in his arms, her eyes fluttering closed, her lips parting easily under his. His mind in a blur of <em>soft</em> and <em>warm</em> and <em>flowers</em> and <em>her</em>. He never wants to stop. </p><p>But it is a Monday, and he makes himself. Her brow creases when he pulls away, and he chuckles and swoops back down to kiss her forehead. “You need to sleep, sweetheart.” </p><p>He hasn’t kept her on weeknights often enough to be sure, but she is such an early riser that he can hazard a guess. It is nearly eleven, which he expects is too late already. His suspicion is confirmed when she huffs in frustration but doesn’t contradict him. </p><p>He drops one more kiss on her hair and moves to his dresser to find her some pyjamas. She steps out of her heels and lines them up carefully against the wall, then unzips her skirt. He tries not to watch her undress too closely out of the corner of his eye, and he especially tries not to notice which lingerie she is wearing today—pink lace, pretty and delicate against her tawny skin—and he fails completely at not staring at her breasts when she unclasps her bra. His lips press together as he hands over a sleep shirt. She buttons it up, and the monogram on the chest pocket does absolutely nothing to lessen his desire to rip it back off her. </p><p>No. If she doesn’t get enough sleep tonight, she will be miserable tomorrow. He clenches his jaw and mechanically changes into his pyjama bottoms. </p><p>After he has tidied up, and they have brushed their teeth side-by-side at the two sinks in his master bath, and he has tucked her carefully under the covers, he puts out the lights with a wave of his hand. Hermione’s fingers search out his in the dark, and he gathers her to his chest, her legs tangling with his. </p><p>“Draco?” she says softly. He hums in answer. “Thank you for showing me the letter.” </p><p>He is a little taken aback. “I should be thanking you. You...helped.” In the dark, it is easier to admit, “I was feeling...a lot.” </p><p>“I know.” Her words are little puffs of air against his bare shoulder. “I’m glad you could share that with me. I’m glad I could help.”</p><p>He peppers kisses along her hairline. “You always do,” he murmurs. “Perfect little thing. So sweet for me.”</p><p>She makes a breathless, pleased noise that goes straight to his cock. He bites back a groan. “So tempting,” he mutters. </p><p>Her arm across his abdomen tenses, her fingers digging into his side. “We can,” she whispers. “I want to.”</p><p>“No,” he grits out. “It’ll ruin tomorrow for you. Go to sleep, love.” </p><p>Clearly discontent, she sighs, “Yes, sir.” </p><p>Even in her sour tone the honorific makes him half-hard. </p><p>It’s going to be a long night. His consolation is that very soon, Hermione’s breath goes long and even. Even if he is miserable, she will get a good night’s sleep. </p><p>***</p><p>Draco spends the rest of the week scheming. Well, scheming and reading up on the Harpies. Hermione, he knows from Harry’s numerous complaints, has never cared much for Quidditch in general, but her devotion to the Holyhead Harpies borders on obsession. Something about it being the only all-witch team plays a large part, he’s sure, plus she wants to support Ginny. His personal theory is that she needs a competitive outlet now that they are out of school and has taken up zealous fandom of this particular Quidditch team.</p><p>It’s not that he doesn’t follow Quidditch. He does, always has, and is in fact currently winning the running pool he and Theo and Blaise Zabini have had since Hogwarts. It’s just that Hermione’s knowledge of the Harpies is encyclopedic, and one time getting caught with the wrong year of their 1397 World Cup championship was quite enough for him.</p><p>So he brushes up on his Holyhead trivia, listens in amusement as Hermione bubbles over with excitement, and tests out a theory. </p><p>It took him months to get her to accept anything lavish from him. To this day he has only managed to buy her lingerie, and even that required several failed plans and an hour of edging to achieve. It’s not a very practical strategy going forward, considering how many luxuries he itches to bestow upon her, but he wonders if he could fracture her resistance with something she wants very, very much—something she couldn’t bring herself to turn down. </p><p>She has been mooning over a Harpies jersey for as long as he can remember knowing her as an adult. It is a well-worn refrain that the team wants <em>an arm and a leg for the bloody things, and I suppose they’re right to ask for it, because I’d give it over if I had it to give</em>. </p><p>And he certainly has it to give. </p><p>But he wants it to be just right. There are many things to consider. For example, whose jersey does she want most? She is an enduring fan of once-captain Gwendolyn Morgan—something about whacking a bloke with her broomstick—but she is also apt to ramble about Gwenog Jones—frankly he can never remember why she likes that one—and any member of the team at one time or another has been the subject of much conversation. </p><p>He ends up writing Ginny. He hardly knows her—hasn’t spoken to her since Hogwarts that he can remember—but she is still fast friends with Harry and Hermione, so he has heard about her often enough. He hopes she’s heard about him, too, or at the very least reads the paper; if she doesn’t, his letter will undoubtedly make him sound like a lunatic instead of Hermione’s boyfriend. </p><p>Fortunately, she must do one or the other, because she writes him back the next day. Her letter has him laughing aloud in his kitchen and suddenly hoping he’ll get to talk to her sometime soon. </p><p>
  <em>As conceited as this makes me sound—and as conceited as I’m sure I am, being the best Chaser in recent Harpies history—I genuinely think the jersey Hermione would like most is mine. We’ve both always been fans, but I think she was more excited than I was when I made the team. </em>
</p><p><em>I’d get her a home jersey, if I were you. It’s your best chance to get her in green.</em> </p><p>He does get her a home jersey. What he does not do is write back that he’s peeled her out of Slytherin green knickers more times than he can count. </p><p>***</p><p>Friday, Hermione is practically vibrating with excitement. It might be the only unproductive workday in Hermione Granger history. It is endearing, and amusing, and loud, and Draco loves it.</p><p>He leans back in his chair over lunch and interrupts the stream-of-conscious babble of her anticipation. “How is it that you’ve never been to a match before? Ginny’s been on the team for, what, three or four years?” </p><p>“Well,” she huffs, “for one thing, tickets cost—“ </p><p>“An arm and a leg, we know,” Harry cuts in. He doesn’t usually eat with them in the break room; Draco is reasonably sure he’s only here today to see Hermione, already intense, turned up to eleven. “And Ginny has offered to give you tickets a thousand times!”</p><p>“It’s not fair to deny them their hard-earned ticket revenue,” she sniffs. </p><p>“How do you think I got—“</p><p>Draco kicks Harry under the table. Hard. </p><p>“Besides, I’ve just been—busy. Work, and the shelter—“</p><p>Draco rolls his eyes and catches Harry doing the same. As if Hermione doesn’t spend enough time working herself half to death for the Ministry, she volunteers at the shelter for Magical Creatures on the weekends. Draco hasn’t run into scheduling conflict yet, but he’s sure it will happen eventually, just as he is sure he’ll lose out on a lovely lazy Sunday with her so she can go shovel unicorn dung or god knows what else.</p><p>She starts back in on the team, now rattling off her best guess at the starting roster, oblivious to Draco and Harry snickering behind their palms. </p><p>***</p><p>For the first time in his entire life, Draco walks into Hermione’s office at five-thirty and finds her all packed up and ready to go. </p><p>“We have to go home and change,” she says before he can open his mouth. “And then we can Floo from here to the stadium.” </p><p>“Hello to you, too,” he chuckles. “I had a nice afternoon, thanks for asking.” </p><p>“Don’t be an arse,” she snips, but she gives him an impish smile. </p><p>“Now, now. Is that any way to treat someone who’s gotten you a present?”</p><p>Hermione stops short. “A present?” </p><p>Draco takes the plain shopping bag from behind his back. “A present.” </p><p>“It’s not my birthday,” she says, eyeing him suspiciously. “Or Christmas or—anything.” </p><p>“Can’t a man get his witch a gift for no reason at all?” </p><p>She puts her hands on her hips. “That depends on how much gold said man spent on said gift.” </p><p>“None of your business.” </p><p>“I don’t want you to waste money on me—”</p><p>“It’s not a waste,” Draco corrects. “Not if I get you something you like. And I think you’ll like this a good bit.” He holds the bag out to her on the crook of one finger. “Just take a look. I’m asking you.” </p><p>He doesn’t know if his plea is what persuades her or just her curiosity. Either way, she takes the bag from him and sets it on her desk, then reaches inside carefully to draw out the jersey. It comes unfolded as she holds it up, revealing Ginny’s number below the distinctive logo. </p><p>She gasps so sharply he’s briefly afraid she’s choked. And the look on her face—he’d buy her the whole bloody team just for that. She is equal parts elated and furious, her mouth opening and closing.  </p><p>“You—you—“ she splutters. “This is—“</p><p>Hermione Granger, speechless. He can die a happy man. </p><p>“These—these cost—“</p><p>“Don’t start with me. The Malfoys have been accumulating arms and legs for a long time.” He pauses. “That’s really a macabre saying, you know.”</p><p>“It’s just an expression,” she says absently, as she says every time he teases her about the bizarre Muggle idioms she favors. </p><p>Hermione looks down at the jersey for a moment. He can see her wavering, gnawing on her lip. “You know I don’t like you to spend so much on me,” she says finally, in a far less accusatory tone than before. </p><p>He takes a step closer to her. “I know you think that,” he says softly. “But I think you would like it, if you let it happen. I know I would.” </p><p>She snaps her head to him then and seems to realize he has gotten closer. “You would?”</p><p>“Of course. Why do you think I insist?” A step closer, and he can put his fingertips lightly on her shoulder and run them down to her elbow. “You give me so much. This is something I can give you. Consider it a thank-you for your kindness earlier this week.” </p><p>She blinks up at him, her lips parted, her eyes searching his face. “You don’t have to thank me for being kind to you, Draco.” </p><p>“I want to. Come on, sweetheart. Let me spoil you.” He makes his tone cajoling. “Let me take care of you. You have no idea how much I like to see you in things I’ve given you.” </p><p>Her mouth twitches into a smile. “I have some idea.” </p><p>“Could have more of one.” </p><p>She hugs the jersey to her chest. “Alright. Just this once. But don’t get carried away!”</p><p>He smirks at her. Far too late for that. </p><p>***</p><p>The seats Ginny has given Harry are excellent, front-row and high-up so they can see everything. Even so, Draco mostly looks at Hermione. </p><p>She is rapt, sitting forward to watch every second, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in a mess of curls. The jersey he gave her is long and loose, but her jeans are snug over the curve of her arse, a fact he appreciated at length as they climbed the stairs to the tallest platform. Her mouth is darker than usual, swiped with lipstick and begging to be kissed, but he restrains himself to sitting beside her with his arm across the back of her chair. During time-outs she leans close to him to chat, or closer still to talk over him to Theo and Harry, bracing her hand on his thigh to keep her balance and sometimes letting it linger when she returns to her place.</p><p>It is her easy affection that gets him, her casual touch in a setting so public. Later in the game she props her head on his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his knee, and when something happens in the match to make her jump up, he misses the weight of her. She smiles, joyful and sweet, when he pulls her back down. She doesn’t bat an eye when the flash of a camera bulb is occasionally directed toward them instead of the pitch, not even as the evening grows cool and she snuggles up against him with the icy tip of her nose against his throat. </p><p>During half-time, Harry wants to see if they can catch Ginny to say hello. Theo waves him ahead, and Draco relinquishes Hermione to go along, though not without some grousing. </p><p>“Having fun?” Theo asks. “You haven’t said much.” </p><p>Draco laughs and takes a swig of his butterbeer. “In her current state, Hermione talks enough for the both of us.” </p><p>Theo snorts. “Fair point.” Then he looks away, back towards the pitch, and in an exceedingly casual tone, says, “Can I ask you something?” </p><p>Draco shrugs. No telling what is coming next. “Sure.” </p><p>Theo clears his throat. “How did you—well, I guess first things first—when did you ask her to move in with you? It’s been more than six months now, and I—”</p><p>Theo cuts himself off in alarm as Draco chokes on a mouthful of beer, unwisely imbibed at the beginning of Theo’s sentence and nowhere close to going down by the end. He slaps Draco on the back a few times before Draco waves him off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. </p><p>“Fine,” Draco wheezes, “I’m fine.” </p><p>“Clearly,” deadpans Theo. “What was all that?”</p><p>“Nothing.” Draco coughs weakly. “Nothing, we just—we don’t live together.” </p><p>Theo’s jaw drops open. <em>”What?”</em> </p><p>Draco winces. “We don’t.” </p><p>“Well, why the fuck not?”</p><p>Why the fuck not, indeed. </p><p>“We’ve hardly been dating two months—”</p><p>“Oh, come off it—more like two years—”</p><p>“That’s not true—”</p><p>“And you’ve been in love with her for <em>ten</em>--”</p><p>“I haven’t been—”</p><p>“For God’s sake, mate.” Theo says, exasperated. “Stop torturing the girl.” </p><p>“I am not torturing her,” Draco grumbles.</p><p>Theo counts off on his fingers. “Her, yourself, Harry, <em>me</em>—” </p><p>“Sod off. It’s just never come up!”</p><p>“It’s <em>your job</em> to bring it up!”</p><p>Draco opens his mouth to shoot back—something. Anything. </p><p>He comes up with nothing.</p><p>He clicks his mouth shut. </p><p>Theo looks unbearably smug. “I’ll let you know how it goes, then. Maybe give you some tips.”</p><p>Before Draco can tell him he’s an insufferable arse, Harry and Hermione are trotting back up the stairs, grinning and chattering back and forth. Hermione takes her seat next to him, her cheeks pink from the cold, and produces a foaming mug of butterbeer from the inside of her charmed bag. </p><p>“I brought you another drink,” she says, still breathless from the climb. “We got to see Ginny. Just for a moment, but she said she thought my jersey demonstrated ‘excellent taste.’” </p><p>Draco smothers a laugh. “I quite agree.” </p><p>She looks at him quizzically, like she is trying to figure out what is going on beneath the surface. Draco just takes the mug and settles her back into his side, rubbing his hand briskly over her upper arm to warm her. “Thank you for the drink, love,” he adds. “You’re very sweet.” </p><p>She looks at him from under her lashes, kittenish and cute. “You’re welcome.” </p><p>He risks a kiss against her temple, mostly hidden from view, mostly because she is too adorable for him to help himself. Her cheeks shade pinker, but she doesn’t protest. In fact, she stays cuddled against him for the rest of the match.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Friends, I woke up at 2:30 am to re-write this chapter. Not on purpose. Here is a bit of narrative fueled entirely by the Harry Potter Wiki article on the Holyhead Harpies and the Purdue OWL page on verb tense consistency.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The moment they Apparate back from the Harpies match, Hermione slips from Draco’s grasp and darts off to the bedroom, some muttered excuse about “freshening up” floating in the air behind her. Draco spends a moment staring after her, wondering what on earth she is up to, but he decides there is no parsing it and turns instead to casting a spell over his dark hearth. Soon enough a fire is edging out the chill of the late winter night, and Draco sprawls in his armchair with a book and a cut-crystal glass of whiskey, prepared to bide his time. </p>
<p>Hermione doesn’t keep him waiting long. It’s a good thing, too, because though he stares at the words on the page, they don’t seem to link together into sentences—not while he is busy wondering what she has dreamed up, and if it is as wicked as he hopes. </p>
<p>From the look on her face as she crosses the room to him, it is. That, and the bare length of her legs—she is still wearing the jersey he’s given her, but as far as he can tell not a stitch else. He lifts an eyebrow at her, tossing his book aside, as she stops between his feet. </p>
<p>Without a word she drops to her knees. He knocks back the rest of his whiskey. </p>
<p>“What a pretty sight,” he tells her, reaching out to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. Her cheeks shade pink at the compliment, flaring the smoulder of desire at the base of his spine. He will never understand why she continues to blush at what must be the thousandth time he has told her how lovely she is on her knees, but he has no complaints; watching her preen with his praise is lovelier still. </p>
<p>“I never did get to thank you properly for my present,” she murmurs, looking at him through lowered lashes. The flame climbs higher, stoked by the demure way she is gazing up at him, the soft cadence of her voice. </p>
<p>“Did you have something in mind?” he asks. His trousers are growing tight already, and he drops a hand to his belt buckle just to watch her watch him, her eyes tracking his movements. </p>
<p>“Whatever you’d like, Sir,” she answers, and the words jolt through him. The fire of his wanting licks up into his throat, burning beneath his skin, scorching through his veins. He draws his wand. </p>
<p>Hermione gasps as silk cord loops around her wrists, jerking them together at the small of her back. Draco flicks his wand again to tie the cord into a bow, as if she is the present, and once more to blindfold her. </p>
<p>The effect is instantaneous. She stammers noises that don’t seem to be any words in particular, suddenly breathing hard, her cheeks darkened to red beneath the emerald silk of the blindfold. Satisfaction unfurls through his blood as she shifts minutely, almost imperceptibly, to press her thighs together. </p>
<p>He watches the movement, her bid for some friction, and tuts disapprovingly. “You know better than that,” he chides, and puts the toe of his shoe between her knees. “Spread.” </p>
<p>Hermione whines, a high, needy sound that goes straight to his cock. He <em>tsks</em> again, inching his foot forward to wedge her legs apart. </p>
<p>This time she obeys. She shuffles her knees wider, spreading herself so open it would be obscene but for the shadow cast by the hem of her top, stretched taut over her splayed thighs. </p>
<p>“Better.” He doesn’t really mind if she touches herself—lets her get away with it most of the time—but it is always darkly divine to punish her for it. He begins to stroke his hardening length through his trousers. “Now. You were going to thank me?”</p>
<p>She gives a shaky nod. “Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“For what?” he prompts. </p>
<p>“Getting me such a lovely gift,” she answers softly. </p>
<p>“Even though you didn’t want it at first?”</p>
<p>“I—did want it. Just didn’t want you to spend—too much. On me.”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you let me decide what’s too much, hm?” He unbuttons his trousers and pulls out his cock, still stroking at a leisurely pace. “After all, you let me decide so much else. What you wear, what you can do with your hands, what you can see…” </p>
<p>The pink tip of her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, drawing a low chuckle from deep in his chest.</p>
<p>“What you can do with that sinful little mouth of yours.” </p>
<p>And what a ridiculous concept—spending too much, let alone too much <em>on her.</em> As if she isn’t the crown jewel of his life, good and lovely and kind and determined and—</p>
<p>Leaning forward in search of him, like she can taste him on the air. Like she can smell him. </p>
<p>He catches her jaw with his free hand, holds her steady and just out of reach. “And just where do you think you’re going?” </p>
<p>She turns her face into his touch. “Please, let me. You take such good care of me. Let me take care of you.” </p>
<p>And he can’t stay cross, not after that. </p>
<p>He summons the charmed paperweight from his bedroom, activates the safeword spell, and leans down to slip the cool glass into her hands. “Is that alright?” </p>
<p>She nods, her fingers closing around it. “Yes, sir.” </p>
<p>He brushes his mouth over hers—barely a kiss, but still he practically expects to see sparks shower from the contact—then straightens and sits back in his chair. His hand returns to circle his cock where it is hard and leaking again his abdomen, and he strokes himself while he admires her. It always steals the air from his lungs, the sight of her on her knees, made all the more erotic this time with her eyes covered and hands tied back. Her chest rises and falls quickly; she is panting, desperate for him, and it makes arousal sing down every nerve. </p>
<p>“So beautiful,” he murmurs, threading one hand into her curls, the other still fisted around his aching length.  “Always have loved you in green.” </p>
<p>He pulls her close by her hair and runs the head of his cock across her lips and cheeks, smearing her face with pre-come in a filthy show of possession. She sighs with bliss, her head turning to chase him. </p>
<p>“Be patient,” he scolds, and tightens his grip against her scalp. She hisses with pleasured pain and falls still, so he resumes his ministrations, rubbing himself over her cheeks, letting his length slap lightly against her face. She mewls, plaintive, and he grins. “You want it?” </p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” she whispers, trembling with the effort of staying still. </p>
<p>“Good girl,” he coos. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”</p>
<p>Her lips part, begging for his cock, and he slides home with a groan. “Yes,” he hisses. “Perfect, perfect.” </p>
<p>It is—she is—perfect, mind-numbingly so, and he gives himself over to the riot of sensation. His hand in her hair eases as he sits back, his gaze trained on her lips stretched around him. “Go on.”</p>
<p>She hums and starts a slow back-and-forth, taking him deeper with every pass, flicking her tongue around the head when she draws back. She doesn’t swallow him down all the way at first—wicked little tease, he thinks—but lets him slip from her mouth after a few moments with a lewd slurp. </p>
<p>Then she is leaning forward to capture him again, feeling her way blind, nuzzling against his thigh and mouthing back up to his cock. He groans at the kittenish licks of her tongue, the sweet humming noise she makes as she tastes him, the tender way she kisses the head before she swallows him back down. </p>
<p>He tries to think—his mind is a haze of lust and want and the wet heat of her perfect, perfect mouth—has he ever blindfolded her on her knees before? Surely he hasn’t, or he would have done it every time since. </p>
<p>Because it’s fucking phenomenal. She always throws herself into every task, personal or professional or what have you, but without her hands or eyes her single-minded devotion seems magnified tenfold. Diligently she catalogues every groan and curse and gasp that he lets slip between his teeth, then repeats whatever brought it on until he is blind himself with need. </p>
<p>He pulls hard on her hair, half to ground himself and half to yank her further onto him. She takes his cue, relaxing her jaw and sinking down, down, down until he feels the back of her throat. </p>
<p>“Fuck,” he snarls. “That’s it. That’s just right.” He forces himself to keep his eyes open, to look for the plume of smoke that means she can’t breathe, as they inch closer and closer. “Such a good girl. Fuck, you feel so good—“ </p>
<p>He has every intention of coming down her throat, until he doesn’t. Until all at once he <em>needs</em> to be inside her, needs to feel her clench around him when she comes, needs her in his lap so he can touch and kiss and caress every inch of her. He swears and jerks her off his cock, ignoring her dazed questioning noise in favor of hauling her up with his arms around her waist and hips. </p>
<p>He arranges her astride him, rucking up her jersey to spread her over his lap just so. She gives a strangled cry when his length brushes her bare center, dripping wet and warm, all for him. The head of his cock slots against her entrance, and then he pulls her down hard, sheathing himself inside her with a deliciously slick slide. </p>
<p>“Oh!” she gasps, quaking overtop him. “I—” </p>
<p>Concern sparks through the fog of his lust. He gentles his hands on her hips.  </p>
<p>“Hermione?” he asks her quietly, wondering now if he has been too quick, if he should have opened her up more before he drove into her. </p>
<p>“I’m good,” she answers quickly, “just—going to fall—“ </p>
<p>She wavers, off-balance without her hands. He snaps both arms around her, pulling her tightly to his chest. </p>
<p>“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “Won’t let you go.” </p>
<p>Her body goes lax against his, her face tucked against his throat. He relaxes, too, tracing circles with his thumbs against her back. “Better?” he asks</p>
<p>In answer, she rolls her hips down over his. The shift in angle bottoms him out, ripping a curse from his lips and robbing him of everything but the sensation of her cunt around him. The world narrows, spinning down until all he can touch and taste and see is her, right where she belongs, gathered in his arms and stuffed full of him. </p>
<p>Slowly he begins to rut up into her, hard thrusts that reverberate through him to the bone. The position doesn’t lend itself to moving quickly, but he is oh-so deep inside her, his cock dragging against her walls as he buries himself to the hilt over and over. And she is so close that he can’t tell where he ends and she begins, her face buried in his shoulder, the silk of the blindfold slipping against his neck. </p>
<p>“Draco,” she muffles into his shirt. “Can I touch you? Please?” </p>
<p>He grins and turns his head to bite hard at her throat, earning a sharp whimper. “No,” he says, “but I can touch you.” </p>
<p>Even as she whines her disappointment, he feels her walls pulse and flutter around him. His smirk widens. This is the only way Hermione Granger likes to be denied—here, with him, while she is wanton and needy and uninhibited, because she knows he will ultimately give her exactly what she wants. <em>You take such good care of me</em>, she said. </p>
<p>Damn right, he does. </p>
<p>The whine turns to a moan when he pushes up her jersey to run his hands across her bare skin. “So soft,” he murmurs, petting her, stroking her sides. She arches and sighs under the worshipful caress of his fingers and the steady rhythm of his hips. </p>
<p>He keeps one arm locked around her, holding her in place, and brings his other hand between them to skate up her stomach. His fingers pinch and pluck at one pert nipple while his tongue laps at the skin he’s just bruised between his teeth. Every touch makes her breath hitch. He cups the full weight of her breast and drags his mouth up to kiss her, flicking out his tongue to taste her, to swallow the breathy desperate sounds she has started up. </p>
<p>“Draco,” she sighs against his mouth. Her hips start to stutter and grind harder against him. She is seeking some sort of friction against her clit, something to push her over the edge. “Please—wanna come—”</p>
<p>He could drop his hand from her chest to the apex of her thighs and give her the pressure she wants. It would be easy. It would only take a few swipes of his thumb. </p>
<p>He could, but he doesn’t. Instead he pinches down hard on her nipple, and before he bites just as hard on her lips he snarls, “Be my good little whore and come on my cock.” </p>
<p>And she screams, a single high note, as she falls apart.  </p>
<p>Her cry sweeps white-hot pleasure through him, igniting every nerve, burning out every synapse. If he could broadcast it over the Ministry loudspeaker, he would. He would make sure they all knew the sound of his good girl, coming on his cock, on his command. It is the most intoxicating thing he’s ever heard. </p>
<p>The clenching of her cunt around him is divine as she rides out her climax, her voice fading as she comes down. He fucks her through it, chasing his own completion now, brought closer by the soft mewling sounds she makes now as he drives into her oversensitive body. </p>
<p>Almost—he is so near he can taste it. </p>
<p>Hermione turns her head where it is heavy on his shoulder and presses a kiss, soft and delicate and sweet, to the skin beneath his jaw. </p>
<p>Such a little touch, featherlight. Hardly anything at all. </p>
<p>And the tenderness of it breaks him. He muffles a curse in her hair as he spills inside her, filling her up, joining himself to her in this way that is for him alone. </p>
<p>He spends several hazy minutes panting and holding her close, unable and unwilling to loosen his grip and separate from her. Sweat cools on their skin as they catch their breath, as he draws out the time he can spend tethered so intimately to her. </p>
<p>At length, he has to think of how Hermione’s arms must be numb, so he sets to casting counter-charms, removing her bindings and blindfold and sending the now-deactivated paperweight back to its place. His fingers knead feeling back into her wrists, then move up her arms until she is loose-jointed and lax against his chest. He lifts her jersey over her head, ostensibly to keep it away from the mess between them, but mostly to have her entirely bare so he can feel the warmth of her skin under his palms. </p>
<p>After a while, Hermione shifts, sitting up, regrettably taking her further from him, but perhaps it is worth it to see her face. She is smiling softly at him, her eyes sleepy and sated. She flexes her fingers and runs them through his hair before settling them on his shoulders, then leans down to kiss him. He kisses her back, combing gentle fingers through her curls as their mouths touch and part and touch again, lazy and slow. </p>
<p>He thinks he could stay like this forever, drinking his fill from her lips, bathed in the light and warmth of the fire. But even with the fire she starts to shiver, so he gathers her up to dress her in his warmest pyjamas and tuck her under his covers. </p>
<p>When he gets into bed with her, she curls around him instantly. He laughs softly, pleased, as she snuggles up and tucks her head in the crook of his shoulder. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” she murmurs. “Really. I love the jersey.” </p>
<p>“You’re quite welcome.” He kisses her messy hair. “That’s two out of two, you know.”</p>
<p>Hermione splays her hand over his chest as if making up for lost time. “Hm?”</p>
<p>“Gifts that you like. Two out of two.” </p>
<p>“Takes three,” she yawns, “for a pattern.” </p>
<p>He smirks in the dark. “Noted.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>In the morning, Draco smells breakfast. He stretches in the expanse of his bed, regrettably empty of Hermione, but as he ambles through his morning routine he smiles at the little signs of her everywhere—her clothes in his hamper, the spare toothbrush damp at the sink, a second towel drying on the rack. </p>
<p>She is just as conscientious here as she is at work, which is no surprise to him, but it is—something. Something that catches in his throat when he notices that her shoes are always lined up neatly by his closet, or that her wand is always stored away in precise parallel to his on top of his dresser, or that her charmed bag is always hung on one of the hooks by the door. She is careful with his space and his things, not as though she is afraid of drawing his ire if she is not, but as though his belongings are her own. As though his space is her space. </p>
<p>He likes the thought, just as he likes her humming in his kitchen, which is exactly how he finds her. She is standing at the counter wearing a ridiculous ratty apron and turning some sort of metal contraption with buttons and lights and hinges. And he doesn’t spend an overly large amount of time in his own kitchen, but he is quite sure he doesn’t own whatever that is, just as he is sure no such apron has ever made its home in his flat. </p>
<p>“Good morning!” she chirps when she catches sight of him. She darts around the kitchen island to press a cup of tea into his hands and a kiss to his cheek, and then she is back at the metal device just as it starts to make noise. </p>
<p>“Morning,” he says. “What are you doing?” </p>
<p>Deftly she separates something from the metal and flips it onto a plate. “Making waffles!”</p>
<p>And indeed she has. A flourish of her wand sends the plate to Draco’s place at the head of the table, a pitcher of syrup zooming behind it, followed in short order by silverware and napkins and a saucer for his tea. </p>
<p>“Making waffles,” he repeats. He’s never given a moment’s thought to how waffles come to be, though he suspects magic is usually more involved in the ones he has consumed in the past. </p>
<p>Hermione is pouring more batter onto the device, but she pauses with the hinge halfway shut. “Do you not like—“</p>
<p>“I do,” he hurries to say. “Just—still waking up.” </p>
<p>She goes back to what she was doing, but not without a nervous eye on him as he takes his seat and begins to cut into his breakfast. He hates to see her nervous, yet he can’t help but like this sweet, domestic version of her, somewhere in between his prim-and-proper coworker and his blissed-out submissive. This Hermione is unaccountably cute, eager to please just like all the others but with flour on her cheek, and he’s sure he will be able to give her the approval she wants. </p>
<p>“It’s good,” he tells her precisely one bite in. “Of course it’s good, sweetheart, stop making that face at me.” </p>
<p>“I’m not making a face,” she says with her eyebrows pinched together. </p>
<p>He laughs and gets up and crosses the kitchen to her.  “You’re a good cook,” he tells her, thumbing the smudge of flour off her cheek. “And you don’t have to prepare a meal every time I wake up.”</p>
<p>Her face softens when he kisses her forehead. “I want to. As long as you like it.” </p>
<p>He laughs again. “I like everything you do.”</p>
<p>And that is rather more than he intends to admit over breakfast. There is something about walking into his kitchen in his pyjamas and finding her flitting around like she owns the place—perhaps something about the morning sunlight in her hair—that loosens his tongue, and he wonders if he’s overstepped. </p>
<p>But she just smiles up at him, and then the contraption starts to go off again. The medieval-looking machine distracts him, and he watches in curious fascination as she flips it open, peels off the waffle, and plates it in what seems to be one practiced motion. This plate she takes for herself as they return to the table, where he allows himself to savor a few more bites before he speaks. </p>
<p>“What is that thing you’ve got on my counter? And <em>what</em> are you wearing?” </p>
<p>Hermione looks over her shoulder as if she isn’t sure which thing he’s referring to. “Oh! It’s a waffle maker.” </p>
<p>“Did...Velly bring it to you? And the apron?” </p>
<p>Hermione shakes her head and drowns her waffle in syrup. “It’s mine. I popped back to my flat for it. But Velly did bring me the apron, and flour and eggs and syrup.” She cuts her eyes to him. “I hope that’s alright.”</p>
<p>Twice now that Velly has found Hermione here. There is no way he’s getting out of a conversation with his mother in the very near future. But to her he says, “Of course,” and she relaxes.</p>
<p>“How did you not even have eggs?” she adds, one eyebrow lifted in a carbon copy of his own trademark expression.  </p>
<p>“You know the answer to that. I’ve no idea how to cook, and I work a lot.” His tone turns teasing. “And I spend my spare time on a particularly needy witch. You’ll have to excuse me if I let Velly handle most of the meals.” </p>
<p>She ducks her head, her cheeks pink. He grins at her, crooked and roguish. </p>
<p>“But I’m happy to keep things here for you. Whatever you’d like. Eggs, I assume, and perhaps an apron without any holes in it.” </p>
<p>“Oh—“ She goes pinker. “That’s not—that isn’t necessary, but thank you.” </p>
<p>He throws her own line back at her. “I want to. Make me a list.” </p>
<p>A low blow. He knows how she loves lists. </p>
<p>She purses her lips, thoughtful. “Well—” </p>
<p>And that is how he spends the rest of breakfast answering her rapid-fire questions about his favorite dishes and meals and treats. He can practically see her filing away every response, dreaming up menus, and it makes his heart lurch unexpectedly to realize she is planning far into the future. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Once Hermione has whisked away their dishes using a spell that has them scrub themselves in the sink, Draco lures her into the shower with a few well-placed kisses and cajoling commands. After their tryst in the bathtub, he has been daydreaming of having her in the shower, though this particular morning he doesn’t expect to fulfill the entire wish. He has something of an ulterior motive for getting her under the spray and turning her lax with the gentle massage of his fingers shampooing her hair. </p>
<p>Now that the excitement of the Quidditch match is over, he has to tell her about going into the field. </p>
<p>He is fairly confident she’ll be upset. He has seen her pace and fret the few times he can remember Harry leaving the Ministry; if it happened any more often, there would be a track worn down the middle of the marble tile outside Harry’s office. </p>
<p>Then again, Harry has been her closest friend for decades. She loves him dearly; of that, Draco is certain. He can’t expect that she feels that level of affection for her boyfriend of scarcely two months. </p>
<p>Surely, though, she will still feel some concern for his safety. Won’t she?   </p>
<p>“Do you remember the Minister sending me a letter?” he asks carefully, still at work on her curls. This is something he’s daydreamed off, too, lathering up her hair with whatever has that tempting floral aroma. Today he only has his own shampoo, and he keeps getting distracted concocting plans to get a bottle of hers to keep here for just this occasion. </p>
<p>“Of course! I’ve framed it, by the way—just need to find a good spot for it.” </p>
<p>He chuckles at her enthusiasm, unflagging even while she is limp against him. “Harry wants to give me a new assignment, now that the Minister’s on board.”</p>
<p>A sigh escapes her lips as he kneads the base of her skull. “A new assignment?” she manages to ask. “God, that feels really good.” </p>
<p>He keeps the same pressure as he explains, “He wants me to go into the field.”</p>
<p>Hermione goes completely still. </p>
<p>“The field?” she asks, her voice cautious, as if she is open to the possibility that the term has an alternate meaning of which she is not presently aware.</p>
<p>“Yes.” Draco clears his throat. “He gave me the file on Friday, but I won’t get all the details until Monday. It seems the field office in Kent has requested an Auror from headquarters to assist in the investigation of an armed robbery.” </p>
<p>Hermione whips around to face him. “An <em>armed robbery</em>?” </p>
<p>It is a feat to look both indignant and intimidating while your hair is a halo of soap bubbles, but Hermione Granger is an extraordinarily capable witch. She glares daggers at him, her hands on her hips, while the water carries shampoo in rivulets down her body. </p>
<p>“You work at central headquarters! Why do you have to go into the field? You’ve never gone before! Harry can’t punish you for getting a commendation—”</p>
<p>“It’s not a punishment,” he cuts in. He tries to keep his voice low to avoid getting into a shouting match with her, but also because he is finding far more emotion thick in his throat than he anticipated. “It’s an honor. It means Harry trusts me.” </p>
<p>All at once Hermione deflates. “I know.” </p>
<p>She tips her head back to rinse the last of the shampoo out of her hair. The wet curls stick to her shoulders in swirling patterns, and without thinking he lifts a hand to trace the lines. </p>
<p>She speaks up again at his touch. “I know it’s an honor,” she says softly. “And I know Harry has trusted you for years. I’m sure it was the Minister he was waiting for, and now—now you’ll have the opportunities you deserve.” </p>
<p>She steps closer and lifts her arms to wind them around his neck, her skin slick against his. He settles his hands carefully on her waist. </p>
<p>“The <em>armed</em> part already happened,” he offers in consolation. </p>
<p>“It’s still dangerous,” she mumbles. “And I’m not happy about it.” </p>
<p>He wants her to be happy always. Of course he does. He would never be happy that she is unhappy. </p>
<p>But her concern settles something warm and rich and sweet as honey behind his sternum. If she throws a fit when he leaves the office, that puts him on the same list as Harry, and even if he is much further down, he is still on the list of people Hermione Granger cares about very much. </p>
<p>Pleased as he is with this development, he does try to set her at ease. “Auror work isn’t nearly as exciting as we make it out to be, not even outside the office. No one has died since the War. I don’t even remember the last time someone was seriously—”</p>
<p>“May 2007,” she cuts in, every bit the prissy know-it-all she was as a teenager. “In a <em>bank heist</em>.” </p>
<p>Well. Perhaps he should have expected that calling up Ministry history wouldn’t confer him any advantage. </p>
<p>“I’ll be fine,” he soothes. “It’s not a high-risk case.”. </p>
<p>Hermione is quiet for a long moment. He curls one hand around the back of her neck, cradling her close, and brushes his thumb over the side of her throat. “What are you thinking, sweetheart?”</p>
<p>“That I haven’t congratulated you or even asked you how you feel about it,” she mumbles. “Which isn’t very considerate of me.” </p>
<p>“Oh.” He blinks, surprised. How does he feel about it? “I’m excited, I guess.”</p>
<p>“You guess?” </p>
<p>He ponders. “Excited, but nervous. I can’t fuck this up.” </p>
<p>Hermione snorts. “That’s not going to happen.” </p>
<p>“It better not. I’m already out of chances.”</p>
<p>She shifts her hands to cup his face, pulling down until he looks at her full on. “It’s not going to happen,” she says firmly. “You’re going to do an excellent job, just like you always do.” </p>
<p>“Sweet girl.” He kisses the tip of her nose. “But I’m afraid of what we’ll find out about the caliber of my work without you close at hand to help me.” </p>
<p>“Owl me for help anytime you like,” she says breezily, as if she doesn’t have a stack of pending assignments taller than she is. </p>
<p>She surprises him then, reaching for his shampoo bottle and starting in on his hair. He hadn’t expected him to return the favor, but her fingers against his scalp are heavenly. “Fuck. That does feel good.” </p>
<p>He can hear the smile in her voice. “We should have showered together sooner.”</p>
<p>He loses himself to the steady pressure of her hands, but not before something flickers in the back of his mind—something about all the things he should have done sooner.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Many thanks to all who have commented! More to come soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mid-morning on Monday, a Ministry owl drops a packet on Draco’s desk with the details of his trip to Kent. He scans through them, surprised to find that he is set to leave before lunch the same day. His stomach dips with a heady combination of terror and excitement, and without another thought he is on his way to Hermione’s office. </p>
<p>Her door is open, framing her bent over her desk, quill in hand. She looks up when he walks in and sets her quill in its holder, the expression on her face unreadable—or would be, if he hadn’t spent the last decade becoming the world’s foremost expert on one Hermione Granger. </p>
<p>But he has, and he is, and he frowns as he sets the packet on her desk. “Details for Kent. I thought you might want to make a copy.” He speaks slowly, watching her for the slightest tell. The jangling of nerves in his stomach quiets as his world narrows to just this, just her, just the perfectly impassive way she draws her wand and replicates the file. </p>
<p>She sets her wand aside but makes no move to pick up the original or the duplicate. “When do you leave?” </p>
<p>Draco checks his watch. “An hour.”</p>
<p>Her eyebrows jump, then pinch together. “I see. Well, thank you for bringing me these. I’ll read over them, and I—“</p>
<p>She stops talking when she hears the <em>click</em> of her office door being closed and locked. </p>
<p>Draco leans against the mahogany. Her blank face—save for her furrowed brows—and carefully neutral tone are dead giveaways, and he has no intention of ever missing them again. </p>
<p>“Come here,” he says, his voice low and quiet. </p>
<p>Hermione’s throat bobs. She stands and circles her desk, coming to a stop in front of him, and that is probably another indicator of what is beneath the surface—her obedience while they are at work. She would normally protest the order, even the locked door, but today she is silent and still, every muscle pulled tight. </p>
<p>“I can see that you’re unhappy,” he tells her. “And I regret that I’m the cause. But you know you’re not to hide it from me.” </p>
<p>The last time she was so brittle, he only broke her by spanking her until she sobbed. </p>
<p>This time, she crumples on command, her ramrod spine bowing and her breath punching out of her in a tired sigh. He catches her as she wilts and pulls her close, his hand in her hair cradling her skull, rubbing the knotted tendons at the back of her neck. He breathes out his own sigh, relieved. </p>
<p>It’s not that he minds spanking her, exactly. But today he is on a schedule, and this is certainly more efficient. </p>
<p>“My good girl,” he murmurs. She feels so small against him with her head tucked up under his chin—so fragile. </p>
<p>He knows she isn’t. Knows that if it came right down to it, her magic would be stronger than his. She of all people doesn’t need his protection or his care, but he wants her to have it all the same, so he lays little kisses along her hairline and makes soothing, shushing noises even though she is conspicuously silent. </p>
<p>“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he prompts. </p>
<p>“It’s stupid,” she says, her voice muffled against his jumper. </p>
<p>“Hermione Granger, you haven’t thought anything stupid in your entire life.” He rolls his eyes, but it is lost on her with her face still buried in his chest. </p>
<p>“It’s not <em>really</em> that dangerous,” she mutters. “I know that. I do. So this—“ She does pull back then to gesture vaguely at herself. “—is stupid and silly and—and—uncharacteristic and mortifying and—“ </p>
<p>He puts his hand over her mouth. “I think you’ve seriously misestimated how flattering it is to have a pretty witch pining for you back home,” he tells her, and grins when he pulls his hand away and sees her lips twitch in a half-smile.</p>
<p>She sets both palms on his chest and looks up at him. “You’ll be safe?” </p>
<p>“Completely.” </p>
<p>Her fingertips curl in, bunching the cashmere of his jumper. “You’ll be back—?”</p>
<p>“Friday. Late.” </p>
<p>She drops her gaze. “Will—will I see you then?” </p>
<p>Oh. <em>Oh.</em> He swallows, then answers, keeping his tone light and teasing even as his heart lurches painfully against his ribs. “I thought it was well-established that your Friday nights belong to me.” </p>
<p>He’s just been assuming—and Fridays are their designated night, true, but—any other night and he would have assumed the same, that—</p>
<p>That she’d be waiting for him when he got home. </p>
<p>Fuck. </p>
<p>Maybe Theo is right. </p>
<p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p>
<p>She is peeking up at him more hopefully now, and that just makes his heart clench harder—in what universe did she dream he <em>didn’t </em>want to see her when he got back? </p>
<p>“Do you want me to meet you at your flat?” she asks, now eager. “When?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know exactly what time I’ll be leaving Kent,” he admits. “Just go after work, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” </p>
<p>“Oh.” She looks surprised. “You want me there without you?” </p>
<p>He is surprised in turn. “The wards are keyed to you, obviously. What does it matter if I’m there or not?” </p>
<p>“Well—“ She flushes a faint pink, hardly noticeable except that he notices every fucking thing about her. “It’s <em>your </em>flat. I just—wanted to make sure I wasn’t intruding.” </p>
<p>“Come and go as you like.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He supposes they are better than the ones that stick in his throat, the ones about what if it wasn’t just <em>his</em> flat. The ones that would make Theo more insufferably smug than usual. </p>
<p>Hermione beams up at him. “Thank you,” she says softly. </p>
<p>He runs his thumb over her cheek. “What else, hm?”</p>
<p>She shakes her head, her hands still splayed over his chest. “Can I do anything to help you before you go?”</p>
<p>He tips her chin up. “You can let me kiss you properly.” </p>
<p>He doesn’t expect her to deny him, but he does anticipate some grousing about professional decorum, perhaps a verbatim recounting of the Ministry’s policy on relationships in the workplace. What he gets instead is her mouth slanted firmly against his, her arms sliding around his neck as she presses up onto her toes to reach him. </p>
<p>She is so deliciously soft in his grasp, all warm curves and summer flowers and quiet noises of delight. He doesn’t know if the noises are hers or his, just that the feel of her is intoxicating, and when she steps back and smooths her skirt he shifts abruptly into withdrawal. </p>
<p>Hermione clears her throat, her face well and truly flushed now, and indicates her desk piled high. “Well, then. I’d better get back to it, and you’d better get going.” </p>
<p>She hands him back the original of his file. He takes it and lets his gaze linger on her, one last look to hold him over. </p>
<p>“Be good while I’m away.”</p>
<p>She smiles. “Yes, sir.” </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Kent is—fine. Being out of the stuffy Ministry corridors is nice, and the other Aurors are competent. They make reasonable headway on the case. All in all, he doesn’t dislike being there for the week.  </p>
<p>Except working without Hermione is a far cry from working with her. He never does tamp down the moment-by-moment urge to walk to her office and ask for her opinion, or send a memo down the hall knowing it will bring her to him shortly with a stack of folders and a smile. He misses her keen eye for details and patterns. He misses her smart, quick mouth. He misses her clicking heels and sinful skirts and glossy curls. </p>
<p>And how does any office in the country run without its own Hermione Granger, anyway? Nobody in Kent can find a fucking file to save their lives.  </p>
<p>He writes to her, but what he is permitted to put through interoffice mail is hardly sufficient, short notes that make sure she is alright and nothing more. No, the letters aren’t even close to enough. </p>
<p>His mind busies itself trying to make up the difference. He catches himself daydreaming about Flooing home and Apparating to her flat unannounced. Would he find her going about her business, or would she be pacing that same worried path down her own hallway? Surely she would be happy to see him. Or maybe she would burst into tears again, overwhelmed, like she had in her office that first night. Maybe she would be stoic, wound too tightly to let go, needing him to make her.</p>
<p>Perhaps she would cry out with joy and fling herself into his arms. He would kiss her and peel off her clothes and take her slowly, her eyes locked on his, her swollen lips parted as he drank from them again and again. </p>
<p>Or she might need it hard and fast, a brutal reminder that she belongs to him no matter where he is. He would bend her over the nearest surface and rip her knickers off, and she would sob with relief and overstimulation and pain mingled with pleasure as he drove into her. </p>
<p>Maybe he would need to break her down again. He would sit on the edge of her bed and command her drop to her knees where she stood. <em>Crawl,</em> he would order her, and when she stopped between his legs he would make her beg for him to fuck her throat and come across her face. Then she would be dazed and drunk and too far under to keep up any facade, and he would know exactly how she really felt and how to piece her back together. </p>
<p>In the darkness of his boarding-house room he plays out each version of their impromptu reunion and decides he doesn’t care which it is. They all make him spill over his fist in no time. </p>
<p>And after he is spent, in the half-dreaming space between waking and sleeping, a different kind of fantasy floats to the top of his mind. </p>
<p>The exact details vary. Sometimes he Floos home from Kent to find her kneeling in front of his fireplace, stripped bare, waiting for him. Or he comes back late and tiptoes around his flat before joining her in bed, where even in her sleep she sighs happily when his arms close around her. Then, his favorite—her flitting about his kitchen, a green apron tied snug around her waist, making his favorite dinner to welcome him home. </p>
<p>He is all too conscious that he has no right to expect any of these scenarios to become reality. They didn’t discuss any particular plans for Friday night, just that she would meet him in his flat after work. There is no such apron, and he would be rather displeased to find her asleep, though that isn’t the worst thing he can think of. Bare and kneeling is technically within the realm of possibility, and isn’t that an idea—but she wouldn’t do it of her own volition, not without instruction.</p>
<p>And he could instruct her. He could ask her for any of these fantasies, or all of them, and she would make them happen. No question about that. He can’t even remember the last time she denied him. </p>
<p>He could ask her to stay for more than the night. He could tell her. In the quiet of his rented room, he can’t help but let himself picture it, him telling her to move in with him. As terrifyingly vulnerable as it feels to imagine her saying yes, he can’t at all imagine her saying no. Not his sweet, obedient girl—she wouldn’t. She always gives him what he wants. </p>
<p>Theo’s words ring in his ears. Somewhere in the past week without Hermione, in the silent stretches between work and bed, in the empty spaces of his time usually filled by her, the words have taken hold. Of course he wants her to move in with him. Of course it is his job to bring it up. It seems unthinkable now that he has ever even pretended to want anything else, anything other than her under his roof, dancing about his kitchen, brushing her teeth at his sink. He misses her so fiercely now that he can’t think of a single reason to deny himself her presence unless he absolutely has to. </p>
<p>So Theo, the smug bastard, is right, not that Draco can ever tell him that. All that’s left, then, is to be sure this is what <em>she</em> wants. That is his job as much as anything, figuring out what she wants. </p>
<p>Fortunately, he has been honing that particular skill for  years now. He is, if he says so himself (and he does), damn good at it. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Draco has only a dim consciousness of stepping through his Floo and finding Hermione in his living room, her hands clasped nervously in front of her skirt. The skirt is blue, maybe one of his favorites, but he loses the thought entirely to the roar of possession that fills his head and rattles his bones at the sight of her. He rips the skirt off, anyway, so that he can pin her to the wall and hoist her legs around his waist and capture her lips in a bruising kiss. </p>
<p>“Draco,” she gasps against his mouth. “Draco, please.”</p>
<p>He’s sure they have both spoken since he came out of the fireplace, but those are the first words he registers, and they only fan the flame of his desire. Hunger is coiled like a dragon beneath his skin, greedy and vicious, intent on owning what is his. The dragon bares its teeth. </p>
<p>“Please, what?” He pulls his mouth away from hers to bite ownership back into her neck and shoulder, yanking aside the collar of her top. All the lines of his teeth have faded in his absence—how could he have been so thoughtless? <em>His</em> girl, loose about the Ministry with no claim written into her skin? Next time—next time he will make sure to mark his property. </p>
<p>“I missed you,” she whimpers. </p>
<p>He gentles his lips on her neck, switching to soft kisses over the bruised flesh. Her answer isn’t on its face an answer, but he recognizes the plea in it. “I missed you, too, sweetheart,” he murmurs against her skin. “I missed you so much. Thought about you every day.” </p>
<p>The words turn her pliant in his arms, the tension falling out of her body.</p>
<p>“That’s it,” he coos. “I know what you need.”</p>
<p><em>Please reassure me</em>, she is asking. <em>Make me feel treasured and precious and valued. </em></p>
<p>You have no idea, he almost tells her, but her head thuds back against the wall as she bares her neck to him, and he finds a better use for his mouth. It fastens over her jugular, where he can feel her pulse go hummingbird-fast. He sucks his claim there, too, red-purple by the time he is through and rucking up her blouse to get at more of her skin. </p>
<p>Her arms go over her head automatically to help him pull her blouse all the way off. “Good girl,” he rumbles, watching her shiver. “Were you good for me while I was gone?” </p>
<p>Her arms are still up, so he draws his wand from its holster and murmurs a charm to stick them there. She gasps out her reply. “Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Did you think about me?” He unwinds her legs from his waist and steps back to survey her while he shrugs out of the holster and unbuttons his shirt. A sight for sore eyes, certainly—her trembling in heels and stockings and the skimpiest green lingerie he’s ever given her. </p>
<p>“Yes, sir.” She is panting, her chest heaving, her tits spilling out of the balconette bra he loves so much. </p>
<p>His shirt and holster hit the ground, followed in short order by his trousers and trunks. “Did you, now?” he asks. “Did you touch yourself?” He does, palming his cock where it is hard against his abdomen, and her eyes track the movements of his hand as if magnetized. </p>
<p>She squirms, pressing her thighs together. He kicks her feet apart. “Yes,” she squeaks. “Sir.” </p>
<p>He hums and crowds close to her again to tuck a curl behind her ear. His erection is trapped between them, digging into her hip, hot and leaking. “Did you finish? Without permission?”</p>
<p>Mute, she shakes her head. </p>
<p>Fuck, yes. The thought of her with her hand working between her legs, her head thrown back on her pillow, his name on her lips—the frustrated mewls she must have made when she brought herself to the edge and teetered there over and over—</p>
<p>He trails his fingers down her face and then wraps a firm hand around her throat. Her eyes are huge and dark, glued to him. She swallows, and he feels it under his palm.  </p>
<p>“Very good,” he purrs. “My perfect girl. You’re always so good for me, sweetheart. And good girls get rewarded.” </p>
<p>He lowers himself to the carpet and kisses the inside of one knee. She jerks in response, and he hides a smile against her skin as his hands come up to pin her thighs open against the wall. Spread wide, all for him—there is nothing in the world half as lovely, and he tells her so, and her lips fall open in a low moan. </p>
<p>He kisses up one thigh until his nose bumps the wet gusset of her knickers. The scent of her arousal fills his lungs as he mouths her through the lace, listening to soft pleas tumble from her lips. </p>
<p>These <em>are</em> his favorite knickers—obscenely revealing, really more of a suggestion than the actual thing—but he tears them off without a second thought. She makes a shocked noise that might be just a touch indignant, drawing a laugh from him. “I’ll buy you new ones,” he says, and buries his mouth in her cunt. </p>
<p>Hermione shrieks. She writhes and whines beneath him, her hips canting up into his mouth, searching out the wet heat of his tongue or the tantalizing scrape of his canines. He hooks one leg over his shoulder, opening her further to him, and laps at her, long licks that delve between her folds to taste her. His tongue flicks over her swollen clit, and she keens. </p>
<p>“So responsive,” he murmurs. “Such a good girl.” </p>
<p>“Wanna be good,” she slurs from above him, already ruined, and what a phenomenally satisfying sound that is. </p>
<p>He brings his fingers to her entrance, stroking along her dripping slit. “You are,” he croons. “You’re my good girl no matter what.” </p>
<p>Two fingers spear her open, and she gives a strangled cry; whether at his words or movements, he isn’t sure. He is too distracted by the way she clamps down on his fingers, scorching and silken around him. </p>
<p>“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “So fucking tight, love.”</p>
<p>He works her open with his fingers, rough and quick, stretching her, listening to her mewl and moan. </p>
<p>“Does that hurt?” he asks in mock sympathy. He knows what she can take, and this is well within it. </p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” she croaks. </p>
<p>“Poor baby.” He twists his fingers viciously inside of her, and she yelps. “You love it, don’t you?” </p>
<p>Her voice shakes. “Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“You want to come?” He curls his fingers forward and sucks on her clit. Her legs tremble violently around him. </p>
<p>“Please, sir—please, I—Draco—“</p>
<p>She begs so fucking well. </p>
<p>“Come,” he orders, and bites down hard on the inside of her thigh. </p>
<p>She screams his name as her walls clench down, pulsing and fluttering around him. A rush of her arousal coats his fingers. He pulls away while she is still twitching and crying to get to his feet and scoop her legs into his arms, her knees crooked over his elbows, her cunt open and glistening for him. He flexes his hips forward, coating his length in her slick—fuck, does that feel divine, and after a week without—fuck, fuck, fuck. </p>
<p>“Please,” Hermione is mumbling, her lashes fluttering. “Please.”</p>
<p>“What do you want, baby?” he murmurs. “You want me to fuck your greedy little cunt?”</p>
<p>“Whatever you want.” Her voice is drunken. “I want—to give you what you want.” </p>
<p>He curses and thrusts into her, seating himself fully in one slick slide. She throws her head back against the wall and keens, still raw and ruined from her orgasm. He draws out, slams in again, and again, his hips slapping wetly against her thighs as he sets a brutal rhythm. </p>
<p>“You feel so <em>fucking</em> good,” he snarls as he pounds into her. “Missed you—missed this.”</p>
<p>Her tits bounce with every thrust. He leans down to bite at the exposed tops, littering them with bruises, writing his name across this part of her, too. She sighs and moans, pushing her chest out for him, arching into his touch. </p>
<p>“Mine,” he growls. “All mine—gonna mark you up—make sure everyone knows—<em>mine</em>.” </p>
<p>“Yours.” Her voice is wrecked, barely a whisper. </p>
<p>His stomach tightens. Arousal coils at the base of his spine. “Gonna come inside your pretty little pussy,” he pants. “Fill you up.”</p>
<p>“Yes—please—“</p>
<p>“That what you want?” He hitches her legs higher, drives into her deeper.</p>
<p>“Whatever you want.” She is babbling now, eyes closed, lax in his hold. “Anything—give you anything—so good to me—“</p>
<p>It is the <em>anything </em>that does him in, that has him spilling in her, coating her walls with his release. He squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation. Stars burst across the insides of his eyelids. </p>
<p>And as he is coming down, panting, blinking the lights from his vision, it all clicks neatly into place. </p>
<p>
  <em>Anything. Yours. So good to me. </em>
</p>
<p>She submits to him, and he takes care of her. That is what she wants, same as him. Easy as breathing. </p>
<p>He reverses the spell on her arms, easing them down and around his shoulders. She hisses at the shift of sore muscles and at the slipping of his cock from inside her, liquid dripping down her thighs, but he hushes her with gentle presses of his lips across her cheeks and nose. </p>
<p>“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and he does. He carries her through his flat and into his bedroom, laying her carefully over the covers, summoning his wand to erase the worst of the mess of sweat and spend on their bodies. Then he kisses every purpling bruise, every angry indentation of his teeth, though he doesn’t heal any of them—he wants them there, turning their rainbow of colors as they fade, and then he will replace them. And she wants them there, too; she watches him with hooded eyes, sleepy and sated, preening like a cat under his worshipful touch. </p>
<p>“Missed you,” she whispers, carding a lazy hand through his hair. </p>
<p>He kisses her mouth. “Missed you, too. You going to catch me up on everything that happened while I was gone?”</p>
<p>She nods. He stretches out beside her and pulls the duvet over them both, gratified when she curls into him and tucks her head in the crook of his shoulder. “Can I tell you tomorrow?” </p>
<p>He laughs. “Yes, you can.” </p>
<p>“Okay.” She is fading fast, her breathing already slowing with sleep. </p>
<p>He’ll tell her, too, what he has decided. It can wait until tomorrow. He already knows she’ll give him anything he asks. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Draco wakes to the altogether unfamiliar sensation of a little body spooned in his arms, warm and soft and smelling like flowers and sex and home. </p>
<p>Hermione is still asleep. </p>
<p>She is still asleep, and—he checks the grandfather clock against the wall—it is half past ten. He very neatly shakes her awake to see if she is ill. </p>
<p>But she looks so peaceful, curled up in his blankets, her hair a wreck, the exposed slope of one shoulder covered in bruises. Her lashes lay soft against her cheek, casting tiny shadows over her skin, and her breathing is long and even. </p>
<p>He decides not to disturb her and throws one arm blindly behind him to grope for the book he knows he left on his bedside table. Curiously, nothing is there. He twists to look for it, and the movement must be enough to wake her, because Hermione shifts and stretches beside him. </p>
<p>“Morning,” she murmurs, rubbing at her eyes with one hand. “What time is it?”</p>
<p>“Ten-thirty,” he answers. “Did you take my book?”</p>
<p>Her mouth twitches into a smile. “I didn’t <em>take </em>it. I just read it in the living room while I was waiting for you.” </p>
<p>He should have expected this. Hermione, unsupervised in his flat? None of his books are safe. </p>
<p>The Manor library flickers into his mind, but he pushes it away. That is—a whole other—thing, and right now she is naked in his bed in the morning sunlight, and he is busy. </p>
<p>“Well, you’ll have to give it back.” He reaches over to run his fingers through her hair, tugging gently at the tangled ends. “You alright?” </p>
<p>“But I’m halfway done,” she protests. To his question, she nods. “Do I seem not alright?”</p>
<p>“It’s late. For you, I mean; it’s a normal time for the rest of us to wake up on a Saturday.” </p>
<p>She snorts. “Somebody wore me out last night. And I haven’t slept well this week.” </p>
<p>That piques his interest. “Why not?”</p>
<p>She turns a baleful look on him. “<em>Somebody</em> wouldn’t let me come without him.” </p>
<p>A frisson of heat spikes through his stomach. “It’s not that you can’t come without <em>me</em>, sweetheart. It’s that you can’t come without <em>permission</em>.” </p>
<p>“Interoffice mail didn’t seem quite the right setting for that,” she quips. </p>
<p>He grins, all glittering teeth. “You’ll have to plan ahead next time.” </p>
<p>She pulls a pillow over her face and groans. “Next time? Is it already time to think about <em>next time?” </em>She peeks at him. “Do you already have another assignment?” </p>
<p>He shakes his head and steals the pillow away so he can look at her. “No, not yet, and there’s no telling when or even if—“</p>
<p>“Not <em>if</em>,” she interrupts. “Unfortunately for me.” </p>
<p>He snakes an arm around her middle, hauling her close with her backside pressed firmly against his rapidly awakening cock. She rolls her hips back over him, asking for it, and he barely bites back a growl. </p>
<p>“You really did miss me, hm?” His hand slips down, through the curls between her legs, to where she is still slick and open from the night before. </p>
<p>She hums, fluttering around his fingertips where he dips them inside her. “I really, really did.” </p>
<p>He kisses her neck, little swipes of lips and tongue that make her sigh. She reaches back and curls her hand around his cock, guiding him between her thighs, lining him up. The head of his cock slots into her with filthy ease, sliding through the wet warmth of her. </p>
<p>Draco swears as he flexes his hips and drives all the way home, sheathing himself in her cunt. She curses in tandem with him, and again when he starts up a slow steady rhythm, rocking himself into her over and over. She pushes back, meeting him thrust for thrust, and whispers quiet pleas for him to touch her. His hands dance over her nipples and clit, one settling firmly around her throat, and she sighs like every worry she’s ever had is vanished. </p>
<p>They are joined like this, lazy in the expanse of his bed, bathed in yellow, and he loses track of time. He knows only the exquisite pleasure of it all, and then it all becomes too much, and he spends inside of her, adding to the mess that paints her thighs when he pulls out. With his lips to her ear, he moves expert fingers between her legs and murmurs encouragement and loses track of time again. He strokes her until she gasps his name and stiffens, her hips jerking, muscles twitching, and then he coaxes her back down with gentle kisses behind her ear and under her jaw. </p>
<p>He could fall right back asleep after that—happily, in fact—but the bothersome witch he has chosen to bed is tugging on his hand and blinking her big doe eyes at him and saying, “Will you shower with me again, please, Draco?”</p>
<p>Grumbling, he swings his legs out of bed and lets her prance ahead of him to cut on the water. He rubs a hand over his face and through his hair, which, while not as bad as hers, is a wreck, too. He should shave and at least pull a comb through it, but Hermione is beckoning to him from the tiled stall, and he is powerless to resist her. </p>
<p>Under the scalding water, he squeezes out a handful of shampoo and starts on her curls. She sighs and sags against him, eyes closed in bliss. He thinks wryly that he can’t tell the slightest difference between this face and the one she makes when she orgasms, and he starts to tell her so, but she speaks up first. </p>
<p>“Draco?” </p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>“Can I keep some of my shampoo and soap here?”</p>
<p>He drops his head to kiss her shoulder, the nearest skin without soap bubbles on it. “Ah. I meant to talk to you about that.” </p>
<p>She makes a questioning hum and goes to tip her head in curiosity, but she just tugs at his hands in her hair, and he laughs. </p>
<p>“I want you to move in with me,” he says, easy as breathing. </p>
<p>“Okay,” she says. </p>
<p>He smiles and nips at the one square inch of skin he can reach that isn’t already smarting from his teeth. “What was that?”</p>
<p>He can’t see her face, but he hears the grin in her voice. “Yes, sir.” </p>
<p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Many thanks for the comments! They are much appreciated, and my apologies I have not been able to reply to many. Work has been particularly busy lately (I'm finishing a pharmacy residency - last day June 25!). </p>
<p>Do Aurors have uniforms? Do they wear...holsters? I haven't been a dedicated detail reader of the actual Harry Potter books in, uh...some time. Basically I'm just writing based off <a href="https://nadiapolyakova.tumblr.com/post/649090577672126464/auror-draco-lucius-malfoy">this</a> and what I know about shoulder holsters for law enforcement.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tags have been updated.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Draco runs his finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. This is what he gets for leaving work without Hermione—to the pub first and alone, waiting for his hapless friends. No doubt Harry is caught up in some bureaucratic snafu, and Hermione is certainly still working despite assuring him repeatedly that she would only be five more minutes, ten at the <em>most</em> so go ahead and get a table and order for them both. He eyes her red wine, untouched, with irritation. As for Theo, Draco has no idea what’s kept him, unless he is waiting for Harry, which he usually doesn’t. Just as well, because if he were here he’d—</p><p>Theo slides into the booth across from him, already smirking. “Heard you popped in with Hermione every morning this week.”</p><p>Draco takes a deep breath. “You may be aware that we are in a relationship.”</p><p>Theo waggles his brows in response. “On weeknights, you are?”</p><p>Damn him. This is exactly what Draco was hoping to avoid. </p><p>“How did you hear?” he deflects. </p><p>“Harry.” Theo flags someone on the wait staff without looking away from Draco. “So, spending the workweek together now, are we?” </p><p>Draco takes a swallow of whiskey, then another for good measure. “I can spend any night with her I like, thank you very much.” </p><p>“And what about every night?” Theo orders two beers and then returns his gaze to Draco, unrelenting. </p><p>Draco sighs. “If you must know, we’ve moved—“ </p><p>“Ha!” Theo crows, his face alight. “So how’d you do it? Flowers, down on one knee?” </p><p>“Looking for advice?” Draco shoots back. </p><p>“Fuck, no. I asked Harry the moment we left the Harpies match. I didn’t want to end up a bitter old spinster like you.” </p><p>Draco balls up his cocktail napkin and whips it at Theo’s face. </p><p>Theo bats it away easily, laughing, and props his elbows on the table. “So. Who’s moving in with who?”</p><p>Draco scoffs. “Her with me, obviously. Her flat was—befitting a Ministry salary, shall we say.” And little of it worth saving—just books and clothes and her ridiculous medieval-looking waffle maker. </p><p>Theo pulls a face. “Harry’s, too, if you can believe it. The man has no taste—except for in men, of course.” </p><p>Draco snorts. “Him with you, then?”</p><p>“Thankfully.” </p><p>Harry drops into the seat next to Theo, all long limbs, one arm slung around the other man’s shoulders. “What are you thankful for?”</p><p>Theo leans in and murmurs something Draco doesn’t quite catch, but he stops listening, anyway, because Hermione is close on Harry’s heels. She slides along the smooth wooden bench of the booth and tucks herself neatly against Draco’s side, one hand shooting out to snag her glass of wine. </p><p>“Hi,” she says, a little breathless from the rush. “What’d I miss?”</p><p>“Theo being himself,” he drawls. “And what kept you so late, hm? <em>Ten minutes</em>, my arse.” </p><p>She ducks her head, looking a little sheepish. “I got caught up in the research for Anthony Goldstein’s case. I noticed some of the files were missing, so I went to the archive to look for them myself, and they were actually…” She trails off, catching the molten silver of his eyes on her, realizing the explanation is of little importance. Her voice drops, barely a whisper in the crowded pub. “I’m sorry, sir. Why don’t I make it up to you when we get home?”</p><p><em>Sir</em> burns through his blood and sparks desire beneath his skin. <em>Home</em> settles into his marrow and fills him up with light. </p><p>***</p><p>Before Hermione moved in, Draco was certain he knew every part of her that could be utilized to bring him enjoyment. A few weeks into having her all to himself, he is pleasantly surprised to find there is still more to uncover. </p><p>He learns that she loves music. Her off-key humming in his kitchen has been, rather than her usual habit, a poor substitute for what she really wants to do while she cooks, which is put a record on her battered Victrola and sing along (equally off-key). Her library of albums rivals only her library of books; it takes him some considerably complicated expansion charms to make room for each in his living room and office, respectively. After a few nights, she asks him nervously if he minds the noise, and when he dismisses her worry with a wave of his hand she offers for him to pick that evening’s record. Her face shines at his choice—evidently, he selects one of her favorites. </p><p>He learns that witnessing the entirety of her morning routine is surprisingly intimate. Her floral shampoo is jasmine with lavender, and it makes his chest swell with something that feels not unlike soap bubbles to see it finally take its place in his shower. One of the few pieces of furniture they bring from her flat is her vanity, where she sits in front of the mirror and holds bobby pins in her mouth while she attempts to tame her curls. She pads around in her stockinged feet until the last possible second, at which point she casts stabilizing charms on her pumps before she slips them on. Her shoes and clothes take up laughably little space in his walk-in-closet, especially compared to her records and books, but all the same he loves the neat row of heels and rack of skirts, each organized by season and then color in exactly the Hermione-esque way he expects. </p><p>What he learns that brings the most frustration—and holds the most promise—is that his previous level of desire to shower her with gifts was not even close to its maximal capacity. There is so much more he itches to give her now. He wants to buy her a record player that doesn’t look like it survived both Wizarding Wars; he wants to replace her rickety vanity with the mahogany one from the Manor that matches the rest of his bedroom set; he wants to fill the closet with cashmere jumpers and silk dresses and impractical stilettos that would make her arse sway even more deliciously than usual. </p><p>But she is still frugal and reasonable and, no matter what he says, graciously or not-so-graciously declines every offer. He is not dissuaded, just delayed; as time goes by he ponders and adds to the list of presents he will convince her to accept and, by the two-month mark, has hatched a plan. </p><p>After all, he’s given her gifts successfully before. Takes three to make a pattern, she said, and he finally knows just the third. He sends a letter off to his tailor’s shop in Paris first thing on a Thursday morning, and by Friday after work the resultant parcel is waiting outside his kitchen window. </p><p>He retrieves the package and takes it with him to the bedroom, where Hermione is getting ready for their dinner date. Her eyes meet his in the reflection of the vanity mirror, and she registers the parcel with a tick of her head to one side. “What’s that?”</p><p>He smiles. “I got you something.” </p><p>Excitement sparks in her face before she remembers to be sensible. “Something exorbitant?” </p><p>“Relatively inexpensive, actually.” Technically true—this particular order was less than the usual amount, but the total would still make her combust if she saw it. </p><p>Her cocked eyebrow tells him she doesn’t miss the qualifier, but she doesn’t call him on it, just rises from the vanity and crosses the room to him. </p><p>When she reaches for the parcel, he holds it out of her grasp behind his back. “Ah ah,” he chides. “It’s a surprise.”</p><p>She purses her lips. “I don’t know what it is. It’s definitionally a surprise.”</p><p>“Keep talking like that and you’ll never find out.”</p><p>It’s an empty threat, and she knows it, but she withdraws her hand all the same and peers up at him, brown eyes narrowed as she tries to piece together what he might be hiding. </p><p>“Come on,” he says, laying the parcel on the bed. “Let me take you to dinner. If you behave, you can open it after.” </p><p>She takes his proffered elbow. He whisks them off, to the same restaurant as where they had their first date, and she lets him order for them both without complaint, so he lets her get dessert. </p><p>It is something chocolate and sinful, and whether she truly behaves is an open question; certainly she licks syrup from her fingers with more eye contact than is strictly necessary. He lets it slide, though, eager as he is for her to open her gift, and when he gives her permission she makes such quick work of the wrapping that he knows she is eager, too. </p><p>He stays leaning in the bedroom doorway as he watches her carefully lift the fabric from the layers of paper. Suddenly he is nervous—perhaps this was a silly idea, and she’ll be let down when it is not something much finer, and—  </p><p>Hermione’s voice burbles out of her in a happy gasp. “Oh!” </p><p>The brightest witch of this age (or any other) reduced so often to <em>oh</em> by his hand is gratifying beyond measure. His worry evaporates, crowded out by satisfaction. </p><p>“You—” She is breathless with excitement. “You got me an apron!” </p><p>“Well.” He stops to clear his throat, abruptly rather choked—he is used to hearing her breathless, but not typically with joy—and continues, “I can’t have you in that awful ragged one full of holes. Can’t have you in anything but the best.” </p><p>She holds the apron up to her body, picturing it. “I—it’s lovely, Draco, I—”</p><p>He allows himself a smile and draws closer to her. “Let me see it on you.” </p><p>He turns her gently by the shoulders and ties the apron snug around her waist, letting his hands linger on the fabric. Instead of the usual lace and silk, the shop has sent him sturdy linen, charmed to repel stains and tailored exactly to Hermione’s measurements. This near, he can see the ruffle on the hem and pick up on the threads of silver hidden in the deep green. How they have made an apron look ephemeral, he has no idea, but that is why he is willing to pay whatever they ask. He meant it when he said he won’t have her in anything but the best, so long as he can get the stubborn little witch to agree to it. </p><p>Hermione holds up her hair so he can get at the tie around her neck. His hands linger there, too, brushing her skin, delighting in her little shiver. He leans in and kisses her nape before he steps back, and she turns to follow him, her eyes bright. </p><p>He looks her over, head to toe. “Beautiful.” </p><p>She is. There is nothing better than his Gryffindor girl in Slytherin green, and the sash nips in her waist just enough to accentuate the curve of her body. She puts her hands in the front pockets and bounces on her toes, thrilled, and there is nothing better than that, either, seeing her excited about something he’s done. </p><p>“Thank you,” she says earnestly. “This is—it’s the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever—Thank you.” </p><p>He cups her cheek in one hand and presses a chaste kiss to her lips. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. It’s my pleasure.” </p><p>This sweet, happy girl, beaming up at him, wrapped in the finest gifts his money can buy—she hasn’t even tried to demur, hasn’t made a single peep about the price. </p><p>Three times. He has his pattern. </p><p>***</p><p>The pattern is his intended prize—and Draco Malfoy doesn’t lose, this being no exception—but the next morning offers him an additional reward. He would swear he didn’t plan it, but perhaps it was somewhere in his subconscious while he was designing the apron, hidden even from him and just waiting to make its appearance. </p><p>He supposes the latter is more likely, only because when he strolls into the kitchen and she pauses flipping pancakes to give him a little twirl showing off the apron, he Vanishes her clothes without a single thought.</p><p>Hermione gasps sharply, looking down at herself. “Draco!”</p><p>“Yes, love?” he drawls. He props one hip against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest, admiring her, smirking at the hot blush rising fast in her face. Her front is still more or less covered by the apron, though from the side he gets a generous view of her breasts, and her lucious arse is completely on display. He can’t believe this didn’t occur to his conscious mind sooner. </p><p>“What are you doing?” she splutters. </p><p>“Waiting for breakfast,” he answers, simple as anything. “Did you make any tea?” </p><p>Automatically she leans to retrieve the kettle—a new angle on her exposed arse, more delicious than the last—and then narrows her eyes at him with it poised over the cup and saucer she’s laid out for him. Terribly thoughtful of her; he makes a note to reward her later, so long as she obeys him in this newest development, which is turning into a delightful little game right before his eyes. He can practically see her formidable brain figuring it out; certainly he can tell the precise moment she decides to play along.</p><p>She tilts the kettle the rest of the way and prepares his tea with practiced ease. Then she carries the cup and saucer to him, lashes lowered, and in response to his thanks says, “You’re welcome, sir.” </p><p>He grins with sharp teeth.   </p><p>She sashays back to the stove and returns to work. A stack of already-made pancakes is levitating above the back burner; at her left more batter is stirring itself steadily with a wooden spoon. She summons the ladle and transfers a portion of the batter to the skillet, then trades the ladle for a spatula and prods carefully at the edges of the liquid as it bakes solid in the pan. </p><p>All in all, a fascinating process. He would like to hear her explain it some other time, just as he’d like to make more creative use of the long-handled spoon, but for this morning he has other ideas. Namely, to crowd close behind her and press his cock against her arse through his pyjamas and settle his hands on the dip of her waist over the satin sash. </p><p>“Now that you’ve tested the apron in a practical setting,” he husks in her ear, “what do you think?” </p><p>Hermione’s pulse beats fast under his lips as he kisses lazily along the slope of her neck. “Which is the practical setting?” she asks, her voice breathy but still entirely too coherent for his liking. “Breakfast, or this?”</p><p>He laughs, low and throaty. “Either. Both.” He tightens his grip on her waist and slots one thigh between hers, grinding his cock into her hip and earning another sharp gasp. “That’s what happens when you let me buy you things as pretty as you are, hm? Unexpected benefits.”</p><p>“You mean this wasn’t your plan all along?” She braces her hands and presses back, bending over the counter in search of just the right angle of her cunt against his thigh. </p><p>He slaps her arse in rebuke. “Certainly not. My plan was for you to cook breakfast, which is precisely what you’re doing to do.” </p><p>Hermione whimpers. “But—”</p><p>“But, nothing.” He thrusts against her hip again and runs his hands up her sides to cup her breasts, rubbing them through the stiff linen of her apron. “You’d better get back to work, or you’ll burn them.”</p><p>A low whine emanates from deep in her throat, but she reaches with a trembling hand for the spatula and slides it deftly beneath the pancake, flipping it with only slightly less surety than when he first walked in. </p><p>“Good,” he rumbles. “That’s a good girl.”</p><p>Her hips rock in tiny, desperate movements over his leg that seem nearly involuntary. “Draco…”</p><p>He hums and slips his hands into the sides of the apron, filling his palms with her bare tits, rolling her peaked nipples between his fingers. </p><p>Hermione’s head falls back, mouth open. <em>“Draco…” </em></p><p>“That one looks done,” is his only answer. “Pay attention.”</p><p>She gives a frustrated mewl and transfers this pancake to the floating stack, then starts another. He presses an approving kiss to the side of her neck. Her cunt leaks against his thigh, staining into the cotton of his pyjamas. </p><p>He teases her until all the batter is done, plucking and twisting her nipples, dropping one hand and rubbing circles over her swollen clit, biting and sucking at her neck and shoulder. She grows more and more desperate, her breath coming as pants, sweat sticking curls to her forehead and nape. He loves it. </p><p>“Breakfast is ready,” she finally chokes out, and he smiles against her skin. </p><p>“Excellent.” He moves away from her to take his seat at the head of the table. With a sweeping gesture, he says, “Serve me.”</p><p>Hermione brings him a plate piled high and sets it carefully between the silverware she has already laid out. Before she can go to retrieve her own plate, he grabs her wrist. 
</p><p>“I appreciate that, darling, but it wasn’t what I meant.”</p><p>She blinks hazy eyes at him, too far gone to follow his meaning. He grins. </p><p>“Take the apron off and hang it up.” </p><p>She obeys with slow movements, as if underwater, pulling loose the apron’s ties and hanging the garment on the peg by the pantry. While she returns to him, now bare, he casts a stasis charm over their breakfast and pushes back from the table. </p><p>He points at the floor between his splayed legs. Hermione drops to her knees immediately. </p><p>“What a good girl,” he coos. “Now. Serve me.”</p><p>She hooks her fingers in the waistband of his pyjamas and draws it down enough to free his cock, then wraps one hand around it and pumps slowly. He lets her warm him up for a minute, but once she presses her lips to the head he pulls her hands away. </p><p>“Behind your back,” he orders. </p><p>She pouts but does as she’s told. Just for the pout, he summons a belt and the paperweight, snatching the glass out of the air and sending the leather to bind her wrists at the small of her back. </p><p>Hermione gasps the moment she sees the belt and again as it bites into her arms. The metal jangles as it completes its circle, and she stiffens, her every muscle going rigid at the sound. </p><p>Draco pauses. That’s twice now that she’s had an unusual reaction to the belt, which is very curious, because the belt is nothing new. He has bound her with all manner of things, most often this or spells, and she has never responded this way before, not until quite recently. </p><p>He peers carefully into her face. Her eyes are dark and glassy, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted around her shuddering breaths. She looks just like she usually does when she is particularly deep in a scene, but… “Hermione?”</p><p>Rarely does he use her given name in these circumstances, and only when he wants to check on her. She blinks and says slowly, with some difficulty, “I’m good.”</p><p>He strokes her hair gently. “You sure?”</p><p>She nods. “Please. I want to serve you, sir.”</p><p>He swears under his breath and leans down to press the glass into her palm. She closes trembling fingers over it, looks up at him, and opens her mouth. </p><p>“Fuck. What a pretty picture that is.” He guides his cock between her lips. She closes them around the head, suckling it, and pleasure radiates through him. “That’s good…so good on your knees for me. Beautiful.” </p><p>He buries his hands in her hair and pulls her further onto his length. She hums, pleased, and hollows her cheeks around him, drawing another curse from his lips. His grip tightens on her curls, tugging against her scalp, and she hums again, lower and longer this time. </p><p>“Loved seeing you in my things,” he mutters. “Loved seeing you in nothing else. Ought to keep you here, hm? Always naked except for the apron, always ready to serve me.”</p><p>She pulls off him with a <em>pop</em> to catch her breath. “Yes. Please.”</p><p>He groans and drops his head back. “God, you do it so well—my good little whore. All for me.”</p><p>“Yes,” she says, and swallows him back down. She works him further and further into her mouth, swallowing around him when he hits the back of her throat, taking him deeper. </p><p>It is mind-numbingly good, more than he can take. His hips buck up involuntarily, and she gags but doesn’t pull away. The sound burns through his veins; he tips over the edge, snarling, “Take it—take my cock—my come—”   </p><p>She does just that, swallowing and swallowing as he empties himself down her throat, slurping obscenely at his softening length as it slides from her mouth. Her tongue darts out to lap the last drop of his seed from the head of his cock, the gesture almost sweet save for the lewdness of it, and he feels a rush of affection, dizzying so close on the heels of his orgasm. </p><p>Hermione waits patiently on her knees, her lips and his cock licked clean, her bleary gaze on him. She is still prim and perfect with her spine straight and her hands behind her back even as her hair is wrecked, her mouth swollen, her eyes wet. </p><p>“My perfect girl,” he murmurs once he catches his breath. “My sweet, beautiful girl.” </p><p>Then he is helping her up and unbinding her hands, rubbing carefully over her wrists before he lays her out on the kitchen table and pushes her legs apart. He notices her eyes track the belt as he lays it aside, and on a lark he picks it back up, gratified to see her breathing grow heavier, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He re-ties her wrists, this time with her hands over her head, and lowers his mouth to the inside of one thigh. </p><p>“You’ve been so good,” he murmurs in between nibbling the delicate skin. Even now, with her reward well underway, she is fighting to stay still beneath him, ever his good girl. “Let me make you feel good, baby.”</p><p>He draws his tongue up the length of her slit, and she keens, thrashing in spite of herself. He pins her down with a forearm across her pelvis and works one long finger into her, lapping around it, flicking his tongue over her clit. When her moans pitch upward he adds another, pumping in and out while his mouth works, making a right mess of them both, not to mention the table. Once his fingers are good and soaked he withdraws them. Her disappointed whine cuts off sharply as the digits drift down between her cheeks, stroking softly over her hole, pressing the tip of one against the ring of muscle. At the same time he sucks on her clit and she cries out, a wordless plea. He nods once, his lips still fastened around her clit, and her whole body jerks as she climaxes with a hoarse scream and a rush of moisture. </p><p>Slowly Draco eases to his feet and summons his wand to clean up. Hermione is limp on the table; he eyes their breakfast, shoved to the far end, and decides the stasis charm will hold it a little bit longer. He gathers her into his arms and carries her to the bedroom, laying her carefully over the sheets before curling around her, murmuring quiet reassurance that is more sound than word. </p><p>She blinks drunkenly at him while he frees her hands from his belt for the second time that morning. He lifts his fingers to skim them over her cheek. “With me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice soft so as not to startle her. </p><p>Hermione catches his fingers in hers and kisses the pads of them. His breath hitches. She moves her lips to his knuckles and presses them to each, slow and reverent. She has never done this before. It’s mesmerizing. Worshipful. </p><p>It is his answer, too; she isn’t back with him, not yet surfaced from the headspace of the scene. Usually their climax breaks the spell, but not this time. He lets her work her mouth over his hand until she seems satisfied, until her eyes flutter closed and she presses his fingers to her cheek again. He keeps them there, running his thumb along her cheekbone, dropping little kisses along her sweat-damp hairline. The room starts to feel cool as his overheated skin returns to normal, and he knows she will be cold soon, so he pulls the duvet over them both, tucking it snugly around her. </p><p>“You did so well,” he tells her, pulling her body flush to his. “You’ve been so good. I’m so pleased with you.” </p><p>Her mouth twitches into a smile. “Thank you,” she breathes. </p><p>He can’t help but smile back. “You’re welcome.” </p><p>He kisses her brow, her nose, her mouth. Her eyes are starting to look clearer, though she is still dazed, still not all the way out. Then again, that might work to his advantage. Technically it isn’t the best etiquette to ask her questions while she is still half-under, but… He’s never claimed to play entirely fair. “Just when,” he asks, his voice velvet-soft, “were you planning to tell me what it is about my belt you find so very enticing?”</p><p>She blinks those big chocolate eyes up at him. “I—I—”</p><p>He kisses her to steal away the anxiety that flickers to life in the thin-pressed line of her lips. “Don’t be embarrassed. You can tell me anything you want; you know that.” </p><p>Still, she wavers, her mouth trembling. </p><p>“You <em>have</em> to tell me what you want,” he says, a little more firmly. “Have I ever denied you anything you asked for?”</p><p>“No,” she whispers. Her eyes dance away, skittish. She takes a deep breath. “I think I want you to spank me with it,” she blurts, all in a rush. “Or—“</p><p>Whatever he was expecting—fucking hell. He has never dared to imagine—but his mind breaks free, racing with fantasies. Suddenly they are all he can see. Her perfect arse, striped angry red. Her crying in just a few lashes of the leather over her skin. Her cunt dripping just from the sound of it whistling through the air. </p><p>Fuck. Did she say <em>or</em>?</p><p>“Very good, sweetheart,” he manages, his voice strained. “What else?”</p><p>“Aroundmyneck,” she mumbles.</p><p>What?</p><p>The world goes still.</p><p>He doesn’t make her repeat herself. He heard her. </p><p>He heard her, but it sounded far away, distant and quiet beneath the roar of his blood in his ears. </p><p>Fuck. </p><p>Fuck, fuck, fuck. </p><p>The stillness is abruptly over. His mind spins, full of images of her stretched out beneath him, bare save for the line of black across the long column of her throat. Not too tight, just enough to ground her. Just enough to make its presence known around her windpipe. His presence. </p><p>“Good girl,” he chokes out, because she is. She did as she was told, and her mouth is still trembling, and it is his job to reward her even if her admission sucked all the oxygen out of his lungs. </p><p>Hermione must mistake his speechless state for something shameful, because she looks down, her face falling. </p><p>“No, no.” He hurries to grab her jaw and make her look back at him. “I—fuck, sweetheart, that all sounds—just, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”  </p><p>“Because it’s new,” she mumbles. </p><p>“New?” </p><p>But that makes sense. The belt is an old trick; something else must have changed. </p><p>She nods. “How new?” he presses. </p><p>“Since we...since we started dating.” She is chewing her lip now, watching him closely. Automatically he reaches up and tugs it free with his thumb. </p><p>“Still. It’s been a few months. Why didn’t you tell me?” </p><p>“I still don’t really know how to articulate it.” </p><p>“Try me.”</p><p>He holds her gaze, patient, but barely. Silently he begs her to trust him enough to tell him this, whatever is one layer deeper, whatever has been revealed only in this context where they are allowed to have emotions. Silently he reprimands himself for denying her that context for so long. </p><p>Her own hand drifts to her throat, circling it lightly. “Something about the weight of it—I imagine it would be grounding. Like your hand, but more permanent. Always there.” </p><p>Everything snaps together in his mind. “A collar.” </p><p>“No.” She shakes her head. “I don’t like pet play.” </p><p>He remembers. In those long conversations at the very beginning, when they rattled down their lists of what they liked or didn’t, would try or wouldn’t, she was a firm ‘no’ on collars or leashes or fuzzy kitten ears. He didn’t care much one way or the other, and there were plenty of other delicious things she was willing to let him do to her, so he cast that idea aside and hasn’t returned to it since. Until now. </p><p>Hermione is pursing her lips, still searching for words “I just think it would make me feel—safe. Or like I was—yours.” </p><p>The words spark along his nerves, electric. “You <em>are</em> mine, sweetheart. And you’re still describing a collar.” </p><p>She frowns. “No...no, I don’t—I don’t like the animal stuff, Draco, really.”</p><p>He runs a soothing hand over her hair. “I know. It doesn’t have to have anything to do with that.”</p><p>He feels her go still against him, feels the familiar curious tilt of her head under his hand. “What do you mean?”</p><p>It makes perfect sense to him, so much so that he starts talking without realizing where he will end up. “You want something visible and tangible, something physically present to remind you that you are safe and kept and cherished—“ And it is here that his throat threatens to close, that he stumbles over the words. “I’d be—we can—that’s something that—” </p><p>He stops. Clears his throat. Tries again. </p><p>“That’s something that I would be more than happy to provide for you.”</p><p>She is silent for so long that the emotion lodged in his throat starts to taste like panic. Finally, she asks, “How do you always know what I want before I do?”</p><p>He can’t stop the surprised laugh that spills from his mouth. “That’s my whole job.”</p><p>She curls into him, just a little more, her fingertips finding purchase against his chest, her legs tangling more tightly with his. “How does—what would it actually <em>be</em>—the belt, or—“</p><p>“Oh, you let me worry about that,” he says. Ideas flare to life in the back of his mind, just forming, just starting to spin out into plans. </p><p>She gives a happy little wriggle against him, a pleased hum vibrating in her chest. He smiles against her hair. Before she comes all the way back to him, or remembers breakfast, she is asleep, her breathing long and even and peaceful. She is lax in his arms, every muscle languid. Pride sings in his chest. He did that to her. Him. </p><p>And she wants more. </p><p>Fortunately, he knows just how to give it to her. Or at least the beginnings of it. For the details, he’ll need some help. </p><p>He summons his quill and parchment and sits up in bed. It is time to write to his mother. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am so grateful for all your feedback! I hope you enjoy this completely, ridiculously self-indulgent chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Narcissa Malfoy has changed a great deal since the War. </p>
<p>When the dust settled, Draco wasn’t sure what the clear air would reveal about his mother after so many years under Lucius’s iron rule, not to mention the Dark Lord’s. He didn’t know if either of them had anything left after so long shoving down every thought, every feeling, every need. Then the terms of his probation forced him back to Hogwarts, and he had to leave her at the Manor alone to figure it out for herself. </p>
<p>But the same way he found healing at school—slowly, and only through the incomprehensible kindness of others—Narcissa found it at home. He watched her bloom like her namesake, and eventually it became quite apparent she was more than capable of keeping herself occupied, which she did by throwing herself entirely into charity work. Evidently, abandoning her beliefs about blood purity left her with a substantial amount of energy to spare, and a lifetime’s experience of high society along with a bloodline’s worth of gold made her uniquely suited for the organizing of galas, balls, auctions, and any other fundraising events one could possibly think of. </p>
<p>It is truly a testament to the gold-hoarding habits of his ancestors that she hasn’t spent the entirety of the Malfoy fortune down to nothing by now. Draco has long since lost count of all her causes and only tries to remember the current one, which at the moment is the legal status of werewolves. It’s not her most popular crusade, but the Malfoy name has been through worse. Mostly he is glad she keeps busy and seems to be enjoying herself. </p>
<p>He doesn’t visit her as often as he wants nor as often as he should. The Manor is still unsettling to him, particularly since Hermione has <em>click-clacked</em> back into his life. His mother tore the drawing room to its studs and rebuilt it to be unrecognizable, but it isn’t as if any of them is going to forget. That, and he can’t stop looking for his father around every corner and bracing for a cane or hand raised, no matter how impossible it would be for Lucius to escape. </p>
<p>So his visits are few and far between, but they do exchange several letters a week. Draco has been putting off writing the particular letter he sets himself to now, the one in which he addresses an aspect of his personal life that Narcissa has known about from the papers—and Velly—for months. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had something inkling of their arrangement long before that. She’s always been uncanny that way; even when he was a child, he had the sense he hadn’t ever gotten away with something so much as she had decided not to punish him. </p>
<p>Will she punish him now? He has no idea. There is healing and growth and progress, and there is hosting lavish events to facilitate donations to the Werewolf Support Services, and then there is accepting that her only son—<em>the </em>only son of the longest, richest, purest Wizarding bloodline in history—is in a relationship with Hermione Granger. He is hopeful, in that terrifyingly vulnerable way that seems to accompany everything about his relationship with Hermione, but he would be foolish not to face the distinct possibility that his mother writes him out of the will. </p>
<p>But he’s been putting it off long enough. It is time to find out just what she will or won’t do, so Draco finishes the letter and hands it off to his owl while Hermione is still asleep. He tries to close his eyes next to her, but every time his mind begins to drift he startles awake and checks the windowsill for a reply. Once he gives up on sleeping, he tries reading, but he can’t concentrate on that, either, except to smile at the second bookmark that has appeared alongside his to keep Hermione’s place. She has read ahead of him already—of course she has—but today isn’t going to be the day he catches up. </p>
<p>When his owl taps on the glass, he scrambles out of bed so quickly that he stirs Hermione. She sits up and blinks dazedly at him while he rips open the envelope and scans the contents. </p>
<p>“What’s that?” she asks, smothering a yawn. </p>
<p>“An invitation from my mother,” he says, breathing out a long sigh of relief. “For tea tomorrow afternoon.”</p>
<p>“That’s good. You haven’t been to Wiltshire in ages, have you? Not since last Christmas?”</p>
<p>He raises an eyebrow at her. “Been keeping track, have you?”</p>
<p>She ducks her head, blushing. “Standing plans on the weekends,” she mumbles. “You always told me when you were going to be out of town.”</p>
<p>“And aren’t you sweet to remember.”</p>
<p>She gives him a shy smile that makes his heart pound. “Tomorrow afternoon will work out well, anyway. I’ll be volunteering at the shelter—don’t you roll your eyes at me, Draco Malfoy, it’s for a <em>good cause</em>.”</p>
<p>He wonders if Hermione knows about his mother’s recent work on werewolf rights. Perhaps—perhaps it is something the two of them could discuss one day. Perhaps one day soon. </p>
<p>He doesn’t say that yet, not until after he sees his mother, though the fragile frightening hope in his chest grows a little stronger. Instead, he complains, “I can’t believe I’m letting you work a sixth day of the week for that place.” </p>
<p>“It’s different,” she protests, sitting up straight now. “It really is an excellent cause, and there’s no paperwork—well, there’s a little, but I take care of all of it and—”</p>
<p>“How much money would I have to donate to get you to spend all your time with me instead?” he interrupts, grinning crookedly at her. Any lingering anxiety is easy to push to the back of his mind if he focuses on riling Hermione just the way he likes. It works like a charm. </p>
<p>“Someone would still have to feed the animals,” she snips at him. “Or I suppose I could bring them <em>here</em>. How would you like a few Kneazles?” </p>
<p>“What would I do with Kneazles?” He pushes off the windowsill and advances on her, pressing her back onto the bed and bracing his hands on either side of her. “I already have a pet.”</p>
<p>Hermione gasps, her cheeks flaring brilliant red. He grins and swoops in to kiss her neck. </p>
<p>“No animal play,” she protests, but it’s weak, and she turns her head to let him nip at her throat. </p>
<p>“None needed,” he murmurs back. He punctuates his words with marks sucked into her skin, his tongue flicking out to taste her in between bruises. “I like you plenty as a human. Doesn’t mean you can’t be my pretty little pet. You’re so good for me, aren’t you? And you always do as I say.” </p>
<p>Her lips part on a quiet moan, her body shifting beneath his. She clings to his shoulders, and a satisfied growl rumbles deep in his chest. <em>Pet</em> was a gamble—he wasn’t sure he could make her see its separation from her hard line on leashes and ears—but evidently it has paid off, and he captures her mouth to claim his reward.</p>
<p>“That’s right,” he murmurs against her. “There’s my good girl. You love it, don’t you? Love serving me—” </p>
<p>Hermione gasps and jerks upright, nearly knocking their heads together in the process. “Shit! I forgot about breakfast!” She scampers out of bed and rushes to the kitchen, leaving Draco to groan and haul himself up off the mattress. </p>
<p>“I put a stasis charm on it!” he hollers after her, but it’s no use. He drags on his discarded pyjama pants and adjusts his half-hardened length as best he can before he follows her down the hall, grumbling under his breath. Although—in all fairness, she sucked him off not two hours ago, and he <em>is</em> hungry. And not as young as he used to be. </p>
<p>And, if all goes well tomorrow, he’ll get another chance very, very soon. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Draco straightens his sleeves and fights the urge to fiddle with the platinum cufflinks his mother gave him for his last birthday. Fidgeting won’t do, not in his mother’s parlor; he must stand tall and regal, his hands clasped behind his back, as he has been taught since childhood. </p>
<p>Admittedly, Narcissa hasn’t reprimanded him about his posture since before the War. The most she has said to him about etiquette in the last half-decade is that no self-respecting wizard would move into his own flat without cloth napkins. To appease her he took the white linen and tucked it into a kitchen drawer, where it stayed untouched until—</p>
<p>Until Hermione came along. </p>
<p>Perhaps he should tell his mother that. Maybe she will find it endearing. He certainly does. </p>
<p>He squares his shoulders. Again. He has only been at the Manor for a few minutes, but it feels like hours have gone by while he waits for his mother to come downstairs. Of all the days for her to run late, it has to be the one that— </p>
<p>“Draco!” </p>
<p>Narcissa’s voice sweeps into her parlor before she does, and then Draco finds himself enveloped in her embrace, all silk robes and amber perfume as she kisses his cheek. </p>
<p>“Mother,” he says, breathing her in. As unpleasant as the Manor can be, her presence holds the worst memories at bay, replacing them with the happier ones called up by the notes of amber and the gentleness of her touch. </p>
<p>“I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting.” Narcissa pulls back and lets him kiss her cheeks in return, then appraises him with a critical eye. “You’re looking very well, my dear.”</p>
<p>“As are you.” It’s true. She still looks striking in all black, even now that her hair has gone ice-white. He likes it better that way. It makes them look a little more alike, and he prefers to think that makes him favor his father a little less. </p>
<p>“Thank you. Please, have a seat. Velly, would you mind bringing—”</p>
<p>Velly pops into the room before Narcissa can finish speaking, hardly visible beneath a silver platter laden with pastries. She is gone and then back with the tea service, then gone for good, leaving Draco to sink into his chair and will his heart rate to drop to something resembling normal.</p>
<p>“And have you <em>been</em> well?” Narcissa asks. She is looking at the teakettle, busying her hands pouring them each a cup, but her eyes twinkle knowingly when she glances up at him. </p>
<p>“Quite, thank you.” Draco clears his throat. He is still getting used to this lighter version of her that has emerged on the other side of the war, though it reminds him of half-faded moments from his early childhood, when everything was a little lighter. “And yourself? I’ve read that you’ve made some significant strides with werewolf advocacy—”</p>
<p>“Oh, let’s not talk about me.” Narcissa slides his cup and saucer across the table and then pins him to his chair with her gaze. “You’ve come to talk about Miss Granger.” </p>
<p>This is it, then. He squares his shoulders once more. “Yes, I have.” </p>
<p>She folds her napkin neatly and spreads it over her lap. “I do read the papers.” </p>
<p>His cheeks begin to heat, but he says evenly, “Yes.”</p>
<p>“According to which, the two of you are in a relationship. Is that right?”</p>
<p>“Yes. It is.”</p>
<p>There. It is out, officially, from his own mouth. The Manor ceiling doesn’t fall in, nor does his father’s cane come down over his knuckles. His mother doesn’t fly off the handle; in fact, her mouth twitches like she is hiding a smile. That’s...odd. </p>
<p>“What?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at her. “What is it? Are you upset or aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Her high, tinkling laugh spills from her lips. “I’m not upset, Draco, except perhaps that you so clearly are. Please relax, darling, before you break my best china.” </p>
<p>He looks down at his teacup, evidently in peril of his white-knuckled grip. Gingerly he sets it in its saucer and exhales fully for the first time all day. “So you approve?” he asks, eyeing her suspiciously. </p>
<p>She gives him a baleful look. “After everything—how could I begrudge you something that makes you happy? I’ll admit it’s not the marriage I would have arranged for you when you were small, but there are any number of reasons why that wouldn’t—” </p>
<p><em>“Marriage?” </em>he interrupts, his voice noticeably higher-pitched than usual. “Who said anything about <em>marriage</em>?” </p>
<p>Narcissa blinks at him, the picture of innocence, save for the mirth crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Why, I assumed you were here to get into the jewelry in the vaults.” </p>
<p>His cheeks have begun to burn. “I am,” he says tersely, “but not for an <em>engagement ring</em>. It’s only been three bloody months!”</p>
<p>“Oh, please, darling. Let’s not pretend that the two of you on the front page were meeting for the first time.” </p>
<p>Damn. He knew she knew. How does she always know?</p>
<p>“I might be getting old, Draco, but I haven’t yet gone blind. It was quite clear even from the pictures that things were serious. Frankly, I was relieved.” </p>
<p>He eyes her suspiciously. “Relieved about what?”</p>
<p>“The possibility that I just might live to see grandchildren—”</p>
<p>“Mother!” </p>
<p>“And of course that you looked so happy, dear,” she adds, amusement dancing across her face. “But I implore you, take my advice. You need to give that girl a ring and an heir before she or I lose patience.” </p>
<p>Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. “And here I thought this would go poorly because you <em>didn’t</em> support our relationship. I never guessed you’d support it <em>too much.</em>”</p>
<p>“I am simply trying to think of your future. Planning a wedding takes time, Draco, be practical.” At his pleading expression, she sighs.“Oh, alright. What is it you need from the vaults that is <em>not</em> a ring?” </p>
<p>After a few deep breaths that are the only thing between him and saying <em>for fuck’s sake </em>to his mother’s face, he explains what he is looking for. She seems to grow more intrigued as he talks, her eyes glittering. </p>
<p>“Yes,” she says when he is finished. “I know just the thing.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Draco flips the velvet case open and studies the necklace for the thousandth time. His mother was right; it is just the thing. The delicate platinum chain, the single iridescent diamond, the halo of emeralds—it is priceless, but not flashy, and as beautiful as the witch he intends to wear it. </p>
<p>He has charmed the chain shorter, so that the pendant will lie right in the dip of her collarbone. If his measurements are correct, the necklace won’t be too tight for her to breathe, but it will hug her neck closely, like a choker. </p>
<p>Like a collar.</p>
<p>Even though his mind has supplied him with plenty of images of Hermione collared with black leather around her throat or decorated with jewels far more opulent than these, he thinks she will like this best. The weight of it is there, present and tangible, but no one could mistake it for anything anyone would put on a dog. Even with her distaste for the ostentatious, it is not too formal for her to wear it anywhere. Everywhere. Which he likes best. </p>
<p>The necklace is, in a word, perfect. His quandary now is how to give it to her. He has been staring at it for a week, hiding it away in his study when he fails to come up with the perfect way to bestow it upon her. Probably there should be flowers and dinner and music; at the very least he ought to put some words to his feelings, which is where he keeps getting stuck. </p>
<p>He’s happy to talk, even happy to talk about himself. But talking about emotions is not on the list of social graces ingrained in every Malfoy heir; it is, in fact, on the list of vulgar habits to be discouraged. </p>
<p>Hermione wears her heart on her bloody sleeve. It seems easy for her to speak passionately about any number of things, her own feelings included. She is expressive and animated and fiery without fail, and he is…not. </p>
<p>She has never complained about it before. Not about the clumsy way he comforted her the night she cried in her office, nor about their muddled transition from just sex to something more. He hasn’t even named the <em>something</em>, not properly, not to her. And she hasn’t pushed him to. </p>
<p>She is so patient. So good. He owes it to her to make this perfect. </p>
<p>He sighs and looks at the necklace again, tracing one finger along the metal. It will look lovely on her, if he can just get this all right. </p>
<p>“What’s that?” </p>
<p>Draco nearly jumps out of his skin. Hermione has poked her head in the door while he was mooning about her, and now she has spotted the velvet case on his desk. He snaps it shut, but she is already walking to him, her head tilted curiously. </p>
<p>“It’s nothing,” he says. </p>
<p>Hermione steps between his legs and perches in his lap, her arms looping around his neck. “It looks expensive to be nothing.” </p>
<p>“Didn’t cost me anything, actually.” </p>
<p>She hums thoughtfully and presses her mouth to his temple. His arms circle her waist, holding her close to him, precisely where she belongs. </p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” she asks softly.</p>
<p>“Nothing. What makes you ask?”</p>
<p>She purses her lips. “You look...unsettled.” Her fingers card gently through his hair. “And you’re hiding in your office, looking at jewelry you won’t tell me about.”</p>
<p>He startles. “How did you know it was jewelry?” </p>
<p>When he angles his face up at her, a smirk is twitching at the corners of her mouth. Fuck if he didn’t teach her that self-satisfied expression, and confirm her lucky guess without realizing it. </p>
<p>“You’re insufferable,” he tells her. </p>
<p>“You suffer me all the time,” she says back. </p>
<p>“Mm. True.” He tugs her chin down to kiss her. Her hair falls in curtains around them, and he breathes in the jasmine scent of her. </p>
<p>“Please tell me what’s going on,” she says when he pulls his mouth away.  </p>
<p>The earnestness of the plea catches him off guard. “Nothing to worry about. I promise. I just…”</p>
<p>He drops his gaze to the case on the desk and sets one hand on it, the other still curled around her waist. With her in his lap, all soft words and sweet touches, he can’t remember why he was anxious about the particulars, and he certainly can’t remember why he has been hiding in here. </p>
<p>“I got you something,” he admits. “And I don’t know how to give it to you.”</p>
<p>“Is that all? That’s not important. Don’t worry about that.” She skims her fingers down his arm until they come to rest over his. “I’m sure it’s lovely.”</p>
<p>“It is,” he says, and kisses her again. </p>
<p>Her lips part willingly under his, and his tongue flicks into her mouth, twining with hers. She tastes like afternoon tea, which she has undoubtedly come here to say she’s just gotten ready for him, unasked. He doesn’t mean for the kiss to grow heated, but every act of service burns through his body from the inside out, and he is hardly going to stop her when she makes a wanting noise and starts unbuttoning his shirt. She yanks the tails from his trousers and pushes it off his shoulders, tracing appreciative hands over his chest and down his arms. He turns his hands in hers and laces their fingers, squeezing gently, making her smile and tuck her face against his neck. </p>
<p>Then her lips and tongue are against his skin, and he groans at the kittenish licks she trails down his throat. She reaches his shoulders and kisses along the line of his clavicle, then down his chest, and then she is slipping off his lap to kneel between his feet and nibble at the vee of his hips.</p>
<p>Fuck. Wasn’t he worried about something? It is hard to remember with her quick clever hands running over his thighs and stroking his hardening cock through his trousers.  </p>
<p>“Whatever it is—“ She kisses his length teasingly through the fabric. “—would it help if I earned it?”</p>
<p>It. The necklace. Fuck, is she distracting. </p>
<p>And he said he shouldn’t give it to her during a scene. Right?</p>
<p>But her eyes are clear and sharp on his. Maybe she isn’t under yet, still focused on easing his mind. </p>
<p>He cups her face. “You’ve already earned it, sweetheart,” he tells her. “A thousand times over, you’ve earned it.”</p>
<p>She nuzzles his hand, so sweet it makes his chest ache. “Then show it to me. Don’t worry about how. Please.”</p>
<p>Those big chocolate eyes. He has never been able to resist them. </p>
<p>He snaps the lid of the case up and angles it toward her. Her mouth falls open. </p>
<p>“It belonged to my mother’s great-grandmother,” he explains. “Evidently, she favored simpler things, like you do.” </p>
<p>She looks from the necklace to his face and back again. “Is this why you went to Wiltshire? To get this for me?”</p>
<p>“Yes. My mother knows the collection inside and out, and I needed her help to find the right thing. She went straight to this.”</p>
<p>Hermione lifts a hesitant hand to trace along the jewels. “It’s...Draco, it’s beautiful. Are you sure that I—“</p>
<p>“None of that. It’s yours. You don’t have to wear it, but I’m not taking it back.”</p>
<p>She bites her bottom lip and studies the necklace, her eyes roving over the gleaming facets of the diamond. Hesitantly she picks it up. “Can I try it on?”</p>
<p>He smirks faintly. “No, but I can put it on you.” At her curious look, he lifts the chain from her hands to show her its unbroken circumference. “There’s no clasp, just a spell. I modified it so it will open if you use your safe word, but otherwise only the giver can put it on or take it off.”</p>
<p>Understanding dawns on her face. “Oh, this is...this is a collar.”</p>
<p>He smiles. “<em>Your</em> collar. It should fit closely, so you always feel it, but it isn’t supposed to be uncomfortable. It won’t be, if I’ve done my homework correctly.” </p>
<p>Now her eyes aren’t so sharp; her pupils are blown wide, surrounded by only a thin ring of chocolate brown. “Oh,” she whispers, the single-word sentence a telltale sign she is slipping under. “‘Always’?”</p>
<p>“Yes. If you let me put it on you, I have no intention of taking it off.” She is quiet for a stretched-out moment. He thumbs at her cheek and regards her carefully. “You don’t have to, sweetheart.”</p>
<p>“No!” she says quickly. “I—please.” And she twists up her hair and lifts it off her neck.</p>
<p>He takes a shuddering breath. A thousand imagined scenarios, and none of them looked like this. Now he understands why they all felt wrong. </p>
<p>Draco draws his wand to touch the tip to the chain. The metal glows white at the point of contact before it parts. He guides it around her throat, and when he brings the ends together at the nape of her neck they fuse seamlessly. </p>
<p>He lays his wand aside and sits back to look at her. She is lifting reverent fingers to the diamond in the hollow of her throat, scarcely breathing as she traces what she cannot see. With a blush high on her cheeks and her swollen lips parted, she looks ruined even though he has hardly touched her. The sight lances something hot and feral through his blood. She is <em>his</em>. </p>
<p>He yanks her back up into his lap and kisses her hard, teeth and tongue attacking her mouth until she is whining and squirming above him. He rips his mouth from hers to sink his teeth into her neck just above the necklace, and she keens in response. He doesn’t let up, biting savagely down her throat and vanishing her clothes without a thought so he can continue his assault on her breasts. His hands squeeze the heavy flesh as his teeth close around one hardened nipple, and something like a sob is pulled from her throat. </p>
<p>There is nothing he loves more than that pretty, broken sound. He laves his tongue over her abused nipple, soothing, even as he tweaks the other between his fingers, pulling it cruelly and making her cry out. She arches into his touch, offering herself to him whether he chooses to deal pain or pleasure, and her trust makes him want to eat her alive. </p>
<p>“Fuck,” he growls, “do you have any idea how appealing you look?” </p>
<p>She shivers and asks tentatively, “Can I—can I see?”</p>
<p>He didn’t think it possible, but his hungry leering grin widens. “Sure you can.” </p>
<p>He turns her on his lap and conjures a mirror to float in front of them. Reflected back is her bare body, stark against the black of his trousers, adorned only in the glittering necklace and the evidence of his teeth. </p>
<p>“What do you think, baby?” he asks. </p>
<p>“I love it.” Her voice is a strained whisper that makes him smirk, though his own control threatens to break under the maelstrom of desire and affection and possession. He has claimed her a dozen different ways before, with bruises and come and lingerie, but never so permanently. Never like this. </p>
<p>“Good,” he hisses. “Because I’m not taking it off. I want everyone to see it. That way they’ll know you’re mine. They’ll know I’ve given you only the best. They’ll see a woman cherished and spoiled and kept.” </p>
<p>He grabs her thighs and spreads them, hooking her knees over his and revealing her cunt already swollen and glistening. He rumbles his approval and skims his fingers, teasing, through her slick. </p>
<p>“Draco...” </p>
<p>“What they won’t know,” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing the shell of her ear, “is how filthy you are. They won’t know you wanted me to pull a collar tight around your throat and use you as I wished. They won’t know you’re my pretty little pet.” </p>
<p>Hermione drops her head back against his shoulder and whimpers. Quick as lighting he buries one hand in her curls and jerks her head forward again, making her face their reflection.</p>
<p>“Don’t hide,” he warns. “I want to see you. My precious little whore, all for me. Isn’t that right?”</p>
<p>Her throat bobs over the line of the necklace. “Yes, sir,” she ekes out. </p>
<p>“Did you like being collared? Did it get you wet?” He slides a finger into her easily, as if to answer his own question, and she nods frantically. “You’ll have to speak up.” </p>
<p>“Yes,” she gasps. He pulls his hand free of her, and she starts up a whine that turns to a shriek when he brings his hand back down in a sharp slap between her thighs. </p>
<p>“Yes, <em>what</em>?” he snarls, spanking her cunt again. The wet <em>smack </em>reverberates around his office, impossibly filthy, impossibly enticing. </p>
<p>“Yes sir!” she rushes out, the words tripping over each other in her haste. </p>
<p>He spanks her once more, just to hear her scream, then rubs his fingers over her slit and slips one back in, pumping slowly. He occupies his mouth with soft kisses along her jaw and neck, the counterbalance to the stinging blows of his hand that he knows are just now fading into smoldering pleasure. His eyes never leave her reflection, watching her grow more wrecked by the minute. Her thighs are smeared with her arousal, her nipples red and swollen, her skin littered with bruises blooming dark where he has set his teeth to marking what is his. </p>
<p>“So gorgeous,” he murmurs in her ear. “You look so pretty spread open like this for me.”</p>
<p>Her eyelids droop. She is gone, entirely at his mercy. “Please,” she slurs. </p>
<p>“What do you want, baby?” </p>
<p>Her hips twitch in a tiny abortive motion against his hand. “More.”</p>
<p>“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he taunts, but he adds another finger to her cunt and presses his thumb over her neglected clit. She jerks and moans in his lap, squeezing her eyes shut. He <em>tsks. </em>“Look at me.”</p>
<p>She struggles but opens her eyes. “Please…I can’t…”</p>
<p>“You can.” He kisses her shoulder. “You’re going to take exactly what I give you. Do you know why, sweetheart?” </p>
<p>“Why?” she mumbles. </p>
<p>“Because,” he purrs in her ear, “I own you.” </p>
<p>It happens before she can even cry out. He feels it, her pussy clamping down on his fingers, her spine arching, her juices gushing. Just as quickly he shoves her forward over his desk and rips open his trousers. While her walls are still pulsing with the aftershocks of her orgasm he sheaths himself in her, swearing at the sopping heat and the strangled sob she lets out at the intrusion. </p>
<p>He is dizzy with need, and he sets a punishing pace. She reaches forward to grip the opposite side of the desk and braces herself, but her hipbones still bang into the desk every time he thrusts forward. She’ll be bruised there, and later he’ll need to put some salve on her, but the thought is fleeting now as he chases his release, closer with every brutal stroke. He hooks a hand behind one of her knees and hauls it up onto the desk, spreading her wider, driving in deeper. </p>
<p>“Take it,” he snarls, drunk on her gasps and moans and whines. Her answering litany of <em>yes yes yes</em> makes his vision blur. He grabs her hips and buries himself to the hilt once more before he breaks, panting and cursing, and fills her up with his seed. </p>
<p>The moments that follow are quiet as he leans over her, one hand on the desk holding his weight, and catches his breath. His hair is damp with sweat and falling into his eyes, but it is nothing compared to the mess he’s made of hers, tangled and beginning to frizz at the ends. He smooths it back from her face as best he can and pushes himself up and off her, distracted for a moment by his come running down her thigh before he gathers her up and carries her down the hall. </p>
<p>When he eases her onto his bed, the jewels at her throat catch the light and send something swirling through his blood, not quite as hot and hungry as before but something purring and possessive. He nestles her into the curve of his body and makes soothing sounds into her curls, which seems to satisfy the purring creature inside him, at least for the time being. It is several minutes before she blinks her eyes open and looks up at him, one hand drifting to her neck to feel the line of the necklace. </p>
<p>“Back with me?” he asks softly.</p>
<p>“Think so. That was...intense.” She shifts in his hold, testing out each joint and muscle. She winces when she moves her hips, and he summons the jar of salve from his medicine cabinet before she puts a hand on his wrist. “No, I...leave them.”</p>
<p>His eyebrows go up. “You don’t want me to put this on? You always said it makes the bruises go away faster.”</p>
<p>“I know what I said,” she mumbles. “I don’t want them to go away.”</p>
<p>Oh. Well, that is...new. And very interesting. </p>
<p>“I see.” He sets the salve aside. “Any other changes you want to tell me about?”</p>
<p>She gestures vaguely at her throat, a wry smile quirking her lips. </p>
<p>“I already knew about that.” He trails his fingers along her collarbone, brushing over the diamond at the hollow of her throat. “What do you think?”</p>
<p>“I told you,” she smiles. “I love it.” </p>
<p>“Just doing my due diligence,” he murmurs. “Want to make sure you’re alright with it.”</p>
<p>“Would’ve thought the enthusiastic sex made that fairly clear.”</p>
<p>He rolls his eyes. “Don’t sass me, Granger. You’re already in trouble.” </p>
<p>She wriggles closer and drapes one arm over his middle. “I am?”</p>
<p>“You came without permission.”</p>
<p>She makes an indignant noise. “I—you—not on purpose! It was <em>your</em> fault.” </p>
<p>“That’s not how this works, princess.” He splays a hand over the small of her back to pull her flush against him. Her soft skin against his bare chest is heavenly, and he has to make himself listen to her instead of drifting in the silken feel of her. </p>
<p>“You didn’t play fair—”</p>
<p>“I’ve never pretended to.”</p>
<p>“You said you <em>owned</em> me—”</p>
<p>He walks his fingers up her spine so he can pull her head back with a fistful of curls. “Don’t I?” he asks, daring her to contradict him. </p>
<p>“I—” She is frozen while her brain tries to catch up. He knows she’s scrambling for a comeback, just as he knows she will eventually close her mouth with a tiny <em>click </em>of her teeth and nod her assent, which she does shortly. </p>
<p>That makes the purring possessive thing in him <em>very </em>pleased. “That’s what I thought,” he coos. “You’re all mine, and so I’ll punish you as I see fit.”</p>
<p>Even as she pouts, she looks intrigued. “When?”</p>
<p>He smiles wickedly and leans his forehead against hers. “Whenever I want.” </p>
<p>She sucks in a breath. “Yes, sir.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I value your feedback as always. I accept constructive criticism and kink requests &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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